


Seven Deadly Sins

by CuddlyHawk



Series: The Seven Deadly Virtues [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Character, Burns, Chronic Pain, Comforting Aziraphale (Good Omens), Comforting Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Has Chronic Pain (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Kids (Good Omens), Drugs, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Healthy Communication, Healthy Relationships, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Misunderstandings, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm, Sick Crowley (Good Omens), Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), Soft Crowley (Good Omens), Temporary Character Death, black death, somewhat book canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2020-09-26 22:50:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20397445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CuddlyHawk/pseuds/CuddlyHawk
Summary: We follow Aziraphale and Crowley throughout time as they check off the 7 sins and inevitably grow closer.Heed the tags. Each chapter is a different sin (see beginning notes for more info and trigger warnings).~ ~ ~UPDATE 1: Now with art byFreedomAttack!UPDATE 2: Now Podficced byIm_Not_Occult!UPDATE 3: Now translated to Russian bycosplay_of_nothingness!





	1. Pride

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Семь смертных грехов (Seven Deadly Sins)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24729457) by [cosplay_of_nothingness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosplay_of_nothingness/pseuds/cosplay_of_nothingness)

> 1349 (Pride) Crowley catches the Black Plague and refuses help (tw: death)  
1361 (Anger) Aziraphale lets Crowley know exactly how he feels about watching Crowley die (tw: graphic description of death via bubonic plague, mention of vomiting)  
1798 (Sloth) Crowley sleeps for a century because of chronic pain  
1888 (Lust) Aziraphale's temptation of a man at the gentleman's club goes wrong (tw: graphic non-con, ptsd flashbacks)  
1933 (Greed) Aziraphale saves books from the Nazi book burnings (tw: self-harm via burning)  
1968 (Gluttony) Crowley overindulges on drugs and struggles to sober himself (tw: panic attack, vomiting)  
2020 (Envy) Crowley is jealous of Aziraphale's 'girlfriend'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley catches the Black Plague and refuses help

1349 AD

Crowley was supposed to be helping the plague along. Was supposed to cause doctors to 'conveniently' forget about a patient and allow them to infect others. Was supposed to be directing the rats into people's houses and the fleas into their clothes.

He was supposed to be evil.

And yet, here he was, clutching a small child to his chest while her mother choked on the blood pooling in her throat. It was her last few moments and the young girl was sobbing grossly into Crowley's chest. He held her tight, trying to offer comfort. He was never good with allowing children to suffer. His Achilles heel.

The whole city was overrun with disease and death. He had seen Death himself on multiple occasions—and Pestilence's name was whispered like a curse, although Crowley never saw them—but demons and Death worked in different sectors and therefore they left each other alone.

For the most part, anyway. Currently, Crowley was cursing Death as he strolled into the house, demanding into the silence that had suddenly befallen the room as the mother's soul was sent away for judgement, _WHY_ Death hadn't taken a break. _Why_ must he cause so much suffering and pain? Death didn't so much as look at Crowley as he left to continue working. Crowley hadn't expected an answer but it felt good to lash out.

The child hiccuped and Crowley stroked her hair to calm her down even as he stood and hugged her to his chest. They left the house and neither of their eyes were dry.

Quite suddenly, the girl vanished from his arms with a _pop_ that startled him. His heart clenched in fear and he looked around wildly before his gaze landed on Aziraphale, who was standing a few paces to his left, hand still raised from the miracle.

"It's alright," Aziraphale strode closer and gave Crowley a tense smile. "I sent her somewhere safe. She has family outside the country. She should be okay there."

Crowley nodded dumbly, his mind reeling. "What are you doing here?" He demanded more harshly than he meant to.

Aziraphale winced and looked away. "Well, I heard that there was a problem starting down here. Lots of death and reports of demonic activity. I came to thwart you." To anyone else, it would appear they were on opposite sides. But after over five thousand years of knowing each other, Crowley _knew_ Aziraphale. And he could tell that that was just the story he would tell to his superiors. In reality, he could feel the concern radiating from the angel and the utter relief that must have only just started when he found Crowley alive and well (and technically not helping the plague spread at all, but rather the demon was comforting those affected).

Crowley didn't mention that he could see through Aziraphale, and instead played along, just in case anyone was listening to them. "You can't stop the wiles that have befallen this city," he said slowly, watching Aziraphale's eyes to make sure he understood the hidden meaning. Aziraphale met his gaze solidly, understanding burning deep inside. "All you can do is stand back while I do what I must."

"Goodness will always prevail, fiend. You cannot stop me from helping this city no matter how hard you try."

Crowley fought back a smile. Of course Aziraphale wouldn't just leave the city. Of course he would help Crowley get as many people to safety as he could. Crowley gave a single nod, then turned and started running down the street, using every bit of his demonic energy to sense out who was in the most distress, so he could try to save them. Aziraphale was hot on his heel, a concerned frown creasing his brow.

It went on like this for weeks. Crowley had told Aziraphale how the plague was spreading and so both of them miracled themselves a rat and flea repellent, which they also blessed onto the survivors they could find before Aziraphale miracled them out of the country. It was dirty work. It felt horrible. Aziraphale would save the people he could, while Crowley would make sure the end would be swift and as painless as he could make it for those who couldn't be saved (he would later tell his superiors that he just wanted as many people to die as possible, hence speeding up the process).

They had a system.

Until they didn't.

Crowley wasn't sure if it was because his superiors had cottoned on to his and Aziraphale's little system and had sent the unnamed demon as a punisher, or if said demon was just acting out of turn. But while Crowley was helping a rather large family prepare for the death of three of their family members, he felt the sharp pinch of a bite. He kicked his leg out and looked down. A rat. His stomach plummeted and when he looked up, he saw Aziraphale, unaware and holding the wife's hand, and just behind the angel he saw the lower demon, a wicked smile on his face and his hand still raised, controlling the rat.

He jumped to his feet, startling all of the conscious people in the room, and lunged at the demon, but he disappeared before anyone could even see he was there. Aziraphale blinked up at Crowley, a questioning frown pulling at his lips. Crowley debated telling the angel what had happened. But another part of him didn't want to worry the angel. After all, it was just discorporation. He could discorporate himself, if nothing else, and be back on Earth in no time. But then again, he couldn't leave Aziraphale to take care of the sick by himself. Discorporation paperwork took a rather long time (something the demon must have known about), and Crowley was sure that by the time he made it back to Earth, the plague would be over.

No, he would stay alive as long as he could. And he would help as many people as he could. He snapped his fingers and the rat, which had bitten his ankle another two times while he was distracted, fell over dead.

Aziraphale's eyes burned with questions that he couldn't ask while surrounded by humans, but he reluctantly pulled his gaze back to the woman squeezing his hand. Crowley took a deep breath and shuffled back to the dying family's side with a small apology.

He felt the effects of the plague the very next day. He was incredibly lethargic and his body ached something fierce. He and Aziraphale had been working nonstop for weeks by now, but he hadn't felt as tired and as ill as he did when the sun rose. Aziraphale seemed to notice he wasn't speaking as much, and he tried asking him between houses what was going on and why he was acting weird, but Crowley kept brushing him off and redirecting the conversation.

Crowley knew he would need to either tell Aziraphale what happened, or get away from the angel so he could die in peace. And considering how clouded his head felt, he wasn't sure which would happen first. At this point, both he and Aziraphale knew the symptoms of all the types of plagues. There were three of them, they had come to learn. One that went after the lungs, though that one hadn't hit England as hard as the rest of Europe yet. Another that caused boils to fester along a person's inner thigh and up their groin. The last caused those same boils to fester around a person's neck and spread down their armpits. Although, after enough time, sometimes it was hard to tell the second two apart, as the boils tended to spread quickly. Sometimes the person's limbs would blacken and die before they did, sometimes they would vomit blood, and sometimes they just passed uneventfully. But no one lived past a week. Most died after around five days (with Crowley's help it was usually cut down to just two), but occasionally one would suffer for a week. Crowley gritted his teeth. He would need to be an outlier. He had to survive for a week, or longer. He couldn't leave Aziraphale to clean up this mess.

So he pushed away the cloudy feeling in his head and pushed his body to the next house, and the next one. He was rather quiet and just let Aziraphale tell the story they had come up with: that they were doctors and they were there to make sure no one suffered any more than they already had. They were only turned away once, a couple weeks ago. For the most part, though, everyone would let them in because they refused to let their loved ones suffer any longer than necessary.

Crowley shuffled inside a victim's house on the third day of his bite, glad that his sunglasses shielded his eyes from the occupants, as he was sure that his eyes were bloodshot, similar to the victim lying prone on the bed. He knelt by the bedside and rested a hand on their small chest, eyes tracing over the boils that had swelled under their chin. They had tears trickling down their cheeks as they watched Crowley.

"I'm going to die, aren't I?" They wheezed, and Crowley felt something twist inside him when he heard that it was a young boy whose voice had yet to drop.

Crowley opened his mouth to reassure the child that he would be okay, but the lie got stuck in his throat. "I'm sorry," was all he said, and allowed a demonic miracle to pass down his arm and into the boy's chest, stopping his heart immediately. Chaos ensued around the room, people sobbing and demanding for Crowley to bring him back, and Aziraphale did what he could to calm them, trying to explain that the boy was no longer suffering and that he was safe in Heaven now. Crowley wasn't sure if the last part was true, but it seemed to calm the occupants enough so he and Aziraphale could leave without being flogged. It was much quicker than usual, as Crowley liked to let the family say their goodbyes. But it was a child, and Crowley couldn't let him suffer.

As soon as they stepped outside, Crowley felt dizziness swell over him and he staggered, stumbling into a tree to hold his balance. Aziraphale was right by his side. "Crowley?" He asked, holding the demon's elbow. Crowley raised his gaze to Aziraphale but quickly lowered it when he realized that his glasses had slid down his nose the smallest bit, and his bloodshot eyes were visible.

But it was too late. Aziraphale's breath caught and he ushered them to kneel in a small garden between two buildings where they wouldn't be bothered. He reached up and unhooked Crowley's glasses from his ears despite his protests. Once they were gone, Crowley squeezed his eyes shut.

Aziraphale's soft hand rested on his cheek. "My dear, _please_ look at me." And oh Satan, the amount of fear that shook Aziraphale's request nearly made Crowley's heart break. So he reluctantly opened them.

Aziraphale couldn't stop the single sob from ripping through him as he tossed the glasses away and held Crowley's face with both hands. "When were you going to tell me?" He asked, sounding betrayed.

This wasn't fair, Crowley thought petulantly. He dropped his gaze but that was enough answer for Aziraphale. After over five thousand years, Aziraphale _knew_ Crowley as well.

"You were going to push yourself to discorporation just to save the people here?" He asked in awe. Crowley debated correcting him: it wasn't for the people; rather, it was so Aziraphale wouldn't have to suffer with helping these people alone. But he knew Aziraphale wouldn't return the sentiment, so he instead gave a weak nod. Aziraphale's grip tightened. "You stupid demon, were you even going to _try_ to heal yourself?"

He blinked sadly. "I don't think that's a good idea."

Aziraphale didn't wait a moment longer. He raised his own hand, ready to summon a holy miracle, but Crowley quickly grabbed his hand before he could do it. "No!" He argued, glancing up as if Heaven could hear him. "If they know you used a miracle to save me, you'll Fall for sure!" Aziraphale frowned and tried to shake off Crowley's grip.

"I don't care," he spat, raising his hand again. Crowley held on for everything he was worth.

"Please don't," he begged. "It will just cause problems for all of us. Some demon sent the rat after me, so I know Hell will be expecting me. If I don't show, they'll check why. And then you'll be in trouble with both Heaven _and_ Hell. I can't let you risk your status for me, Angel. _Please_."

Aziraphale frowned deeply and his voice was harsh but Crowley could hear the fear hiding inside the rough exterior when he said, "Why do you care about my status? You're a demon, you should _want_ me to Fall."

Crowley shook his head and felt himself stiffen when a shock of pain shot through him. "I don't want you to Fall," he said weakly.

"Oh, so you can tell all your friends you have an _angel_ as a friend?" Aziraphale's words stung, but Crowley was too tired to really let them hurt him.

"Because you're happy as an angel. And I like seeing you happy."

All of Aziraphale's anger disappeared in an instant, as he couldn't even pretend to be mad anymore. "I like seeing you _alive_," he whispered, touching their foreheads together. Crowley took a breath to answer, but felt the air choke him. He coughed, turning away from Aziraphale so he wouldn't get him sick too. As he coughed, instead of feeling better, it started to turn into a burning sensation that caused him to cough harder. He pushed away from Aziraphale altogether and braced himself on his hands and knees, coughing up a lung. He felt a gentle hand on his back and gave Aziraphale a sad smile before coughing once more.

Finally it tapered off, but not before leaving Crowley feeling raw from the inside out. Everything burned and when he opened his eyes (when had he closed them?), he saw a spray of blood between his hands. His eyes widened but he couldn't find the energy to move. Thankfully Aziraphale gathered him up into a cradle and hurried them away. Crowley felt a bit of embarrassment at being carried like a child, but another part was grateful that he didn't have to walk. He wasn't sure if he even could.

They entered an empty house. Crowley vaguely remembered it from a previous rescue he and Aziraphale had performed. They had gotten there immediately after the person was infected, so the house was still relatively clean and free from the plague. Aziraphale settled Crowley onto the bed.

"...shouldn't be here," Crowley said, his breaths coming in harder than he liked.

Aziraphale shook his head. "Nonsense, your house is too far away."

"No," Crowley wheezed. "I mean _you_ shouldn't be here. You have to go help the plague victims. You can't stop just because of me."

"_You_ are a plague victim," Aziraphale said softly, eyes welling with tears as though saying it suddenly made it more real.

Crowley groaned, coughing lightly when it irritated his throat. "I can miracle myself things to feel better." As if to prove his point, he snapped his fingers and a bowl with cool water and a clean rag manifested on the side table. He reached over and slapped the rag (still dripping wet) over his eyes. "See?" He said with a smirk. "Humans can't do that. You have to go help them," he slid the rag up to his forehead to he could see his angel, and felt something stir deep in his chest at the look Aziraphale was giving him.

The air was thick for a few moments, until Aziraphale looked away with a quick sigh. "Okay, I'll go help three families, then I'll be back to check on you." Crowley felt relief flood him as Aziraphale stood and slowly started making his way to the door. "If anything happens..." he trailed off. "Just– don't let anything happen while I'm gone," he said quietly. And then with a snap of his fingers, he disappeared.

Crowley sagged into the bed, no longer trying to be strong. He had been fighting the effects of the plague for almost four days now and it was starting to take a toll. His imagination could only work for so long. His body ached fiercely and his throat burned. He leaned over the side of the bed and coughed, watching with mild concern as the blood splatters were larger than before. He took stock of his body. Sure it hurt, but where specifically? His chest, a bit, but mostly in his neck. He reached a hand up to his neck and felt his blood run cold when he found a small, walnut-sized tumor under the skin by his jaw.

It hurt to touch it but Crowley found himself feeling it anyway. The first of many, he knew. He felt the other side of his neck and found a welt that was much smaller, hardly noticeable. Great, plague type three it was, then. At least it wasn't the one that attacked the groin. He let his head fall back and he took a few deep breaths. His chest felt alright (just stiff with fear), so he doubted he had the lung plague. The boils on his neck must have been the sole cause for the blood-laced coughs.

Some time passed and Crowley could quite literally feel himself declining. Clumsily he dipped the rag back into the cool water and placed it back on his head. It felt amazing for the fever he knew he had. Without anything else to focus his energy on, all he could do was assess how bad he felt, which only made him feel worse, which was all he could think about. It was a vicious cycle.

His head became more and more hazy. The towel grew warm and soggy on his head, but he couldn't coordinate his arms to re-wet the it. Fever wasn't breaking, he knew. But there was nothing really to do.

A small part of him wished Aziraphale was there to help him re-wet the rag and hold his hand and...maybe even do what Crowley had been doing for the hopeless victims and just make it end. But then again, he couldn't wish for Aziraphale to have his blood on his hands. Part of him wanted to reach out with his essence to try to summon Aziraphale back to him. He shut that thought down immediately. He couldn't allow Aziraphale to get in trouble or Fall because of him. He was too proud of his Angel, too proud of what Aziraphale had accomplished, too proud to put something as insignificant as his comfort over Aziraphale's well-being.

So instead, he lay on that bed and he suffered, completely alone.

Screams of anguish rang out through the city but it had become background noise by now. Just the sound of another life being snuffed out. Crowley knew in the end his death would just be another statistic. And he knew that he would be back eventually, since he was the demon assigned to Earth and he had work to do. But that didn't mean he wanted to die.

He wanted nothing more than to stay with Aziraphale and make sure they helped as many people out of the city, together. He wanted to see the relief on Aziraphale's face when the death toll stopped rising. But he knew that if he stayed, then Aziraphale would get in trouble.

Everything burned.

Like hellfire, but from within. He panted, trying to cool down. The warm, wet rag dripping into his eyes was an annoyance.

Suddenly the rag was lifted away and when it returned, it was deliciously cool against his fevered brow. He sighed deeply and opened his eyes. They were cloudy and blurred and he couldn't get them to focus. But he knew, even without focusing his eyes, that his Angel had come back. His warm aura was a balm against Crowley's panic and pain.

Something warm and soft touched his hand and squeezed gently. Words were spoken but Crowley couldn't understand them. They were gentle and just as warm and soft as the fingers curled around his cold hand. He wanted to reply, to tell Aziraphale that he couldn't understand his words but that he knew he was there. His throat worked but all it did was cough wetly, sending a small river of hot, metallic-tasting liquid down his cheek.

Fabric dragged down his cheek immediately after, wiping away the blood. Every breath rattled with blood and Crowley found the rasp annoying, so he simply stopped breathing. He didn't need to, anyway. The hand holding his gripped tighter and the voice grew more frantic.

Crowley's heart squeezed tightly. He couldn't let Aziraphale suffer. Because at this point, both of them were suffering needlessly. So he let his eyes slide closed and called out silently for Death to come. He hoped Death would listen. He was a demon, after all. And they were supposed to mind their own business.

But with a surge of fear, he felt the answering wave of black over his consciousness. A voice murmured above him, and it sounded scared. He pulled every ounce of strength he had into giving Aziraphale's hand what he hoped was a reassuring squeeze, before Death forcefully separated him from his corporeal form with his scythe and cast the demon below. He tried climbing back up to Earth, he unfurled his deep black wings and beat them hard, hoping he could rise long enough to tell Aziraphale that he would be back. Tell him not to worry. Tell him they would be okay.

He couldn't even so much as see Aziraphale before he was sucked down below as though it were a black hole.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, buckle up! I tried to make everything as clear as possible. If I missed any tags or trigger warnings, please don't hesitate to let me know! This is a rough story, but it has a happy ending, I promise.
> 
> Make sure to leave kudos and/or comment if you enjoyed!!
> 
> UPDATE: Wonderful art by the incredibly-talented [FreedomAttack](https://freedomattack.tumblr.com/)! Make sure to go give her lots and lots of love!!


	2. Anger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale lets Crowley know exactly how he feels about watching Crowley die

1361 AD

Aziraphale wouldn't say he was a bitter person. He was an angel, after all. He was supposed to be sweet and forgiving and gentle.

But when he was sitting in an empty tavern, already feeling the effects of the alcohol warming his bloodstream, and he saw a very familiar redhead stroll in, he lost his mind.

Aziraphale launched himself to his feet and threw an elbow over Crowley's chest, slamming him into the wall. The bartender moved like he was about to break up the fight but Aziraphale snapped his fingers and the man slipped into a trance. Aziraphale was _not_ going to be interrupted.

"What the hell were you thinking?" Aziraphale snarled, eyes burning bright with holy fury. Crowley met his gaze sadly, hands raised placatingly.

"I'm sorry," Crowley said quietly but Aziraphale growled and pushed his elbow deeper into Crowley's chest.

"Sorry? _Sorry?!_ What makes you think a 'sorry' is going to be enough?" His eyes burned now with unfallen tears as he glared at his friend. His voice rose an octave. "What makes you think you can just go and die, _in my arms_, and not come back for over a decade and somehow expect a measly 'sorry' will cut it?" Aziraphale roughly stepped backward and threw himself back into his chair, hands gripping his cup of alcohol a little too tightly.

Crowley took a moment to assess the situation, then he came and sat next to Aziraphale silently. Aziraphale refused to look at him.

"I tried to save you, you know," Aziraphale said after a moment of silence. He had Crowley's attention in a heartbeat. Aziraphale took another drink and savored the bitter taste on his tongue. "You told me not to, but I couldn't just sit by and let you die. When I came back from those families and you were heaving for breath on the bed, mumbling something about the towel on your head, I knew you wouldn't make it another hour. So I took your hand and tried to make it as easy for you as I could. Small blessings to ease your pain." His eyes were glazed with tears and unfocused as he relived the memory. "And when Death walked in the front door, I put myself between you two. I told him that if he wanted to get to you, he had to go through me first. And do you know what he did? He _laughed_. He said 'The body you hold has already given up, there is nothing you can do to stop me.' I tried to ask him to switch our places. I tried demanding that he take me too. But in the end all he had to do was lift his scythe as he stood in the doorway," Aziraphale's voice choked off to a tiny whisper, "and I felt you slip away."

Crowley's eyes were damp too. He had no idea Aziraphale had done that for him. It had all happened so fast.

Aziraphale continued, still not looking at Crowley. "I wish I could have done it myself, like you did for all those families. Put them out of their pain. But I couldn't do that to you–"

"I didn't expect you to, Angel–"

"Quiet." Aziraphale sent Crowley a nasty glare from the corners of his eyes, then went on while staring into his cup, "And the worst part of it all wasn't how you were vomiting blood. It wasn't that your neck was mottled with blackened boils and tumors the size of eggs or how your fingertips turned grey as your body died in pieces. The worst wasn't even that you slipped away so easily." Aziraphale's back lost its rigidity and he slumped to bury his face in his hands. "It was that you weren't even going to tell me," he whispered. "You planned on doing all of that—all that suffering—_alone_, while I continued our little rescuing endeavors by myself. I don't know how _little_ you think of me, maybe you assumed I would not even notice your absence. Or sense your suffering. Maybe you thought you would save me from suffering if I just was kept ignorant."

Finally, _finally_, he met Crowley's eyes, and Aziraphale looked so _tired_. So worn down and exhausted. Moreso than he had in the eons that Crowley had known him. "I want you to know that I suffered greatly because of that, Crowley. It hurt more that you didn't trust me to help, than it did knowing you would be discorporated. You've been gone quite a few years now, and not a single day has gone by that I regret not showing you how much I care. How deeply sorry I am for making you feel like you had to hide your suffering from me." Crowley reached out to place his hand on Aziraphale's back, an explanation on his tongue. But Aziraphale shifted away from him. "No, I don't want your pity. I don't want you to feel like you _have_ to tell me things. I just thought..." his voice faded off and he shook his head. "It doesn't matter." He stood and began to make his way out of the tavern.

This time Crowley jumped up and grabbed Aziraphale's wrist, only tightening his grip when Aziraphale tried to pull it away. "No, Angel. You've said your piece. Now it's my turn." He loosened his grip to slide his hand into Aziraphale's. "It was wrong of me to hide it from you. You're absolutely right. I don't know what I was thinking. Of course you would notice my absence and wonder what had happened. If the roles were reversed, I would be heartbr–! Er..._crestfallen_, if I knew you were hiding your pain from me, especially if it meant you would be discorporated. I went about it the wrong way. You and me are a team. We make a damn good team too, if our routine during the Black Death was anything to go by. We have our Arrangement; help out where needed and stay out of each other's way. I should have known that we could tackle the problem as a team, like we always do. I shouldn't have tried to do it by myself. I do trust you, more than I trust anything else in the entire universe. And I'm _sorry_ I made you feel like you aren't my friend."

Aziraphale stared down at their clasped hands, listening quietly. Crowley held his breath, fingers loose enough so Aziraphale could pull away if he wanted to.

And after a few minutes, that's exactly what he did.

Crowley felt his heart breaking. Years and years—centuries, _eons_—of time together, all thrown away because of one painful mistake. He went to take a step back, to respect Aziraphale's decision, but then he was stopped by an armful of sobbing angel.

Surprise could not begin to describe the feeling that overwhelmed Crowley. Aziraphale hugged him tightly, burying his face in Crowley's shoulder and blubbered nonsense about forgiving Crowley and being a team and how much he missed Crowley these past twelve years. Crowley gathered Aziraphale in a hug as well and together they sunk to the floor.

Aziraphale's sniffles tapered off and eventually he leaned back and met Crowley's eyes. Aziraphale frowned miserably and jabbed a finger into Crowley's chest. "You are to _never_ do that to me again, do you understand, fiend?" Crowley's lips quirked up in a small smirk at the familiar nickname that held so much affection in it, and he knew he was forgiven.

"I understand," he said with faux seriousness as they pulled away. "After all, I am no match for an angry Principality."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the shortest chapter in the story, next one is much longer :)  
You guys have no idea how hard it is for me to wait to post the next chapter, since the whole thing is already pretty much done. I'm just tweaking things in the last chapter at this point, and I want to keep updates as consistent as I can.
> 
> Make sure to leave kudos/comment if you enjoyed!!
> 
> UPDATE: Wonderful art by the incredibly-talented [FreedomAttack](https://freedomattack.tumblr.com/)! Make sure to go give her lots and lots of love!!


	3. Sloth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley sleeps for a century because of chronic pain

1798 AD

Crowley was no stranger to pain. It was one of the unspoken job descriptions of being a demon, he supposed. Rather, being a snake, cursed to slither the ground and eat dirt. Suddenly finding the snake _not_ eating said dirt must have ticked off the Almighty, because while at first he could ignore it, as time went on Crowley found himself in more and more pain.

His arms would tingle, his fingertips often would go numb. His shoulders always had a crick in them and his neck was always one sharp turn away from cramping up. Crowley would know; it had happened multiple times now.

But his spine and his legs. Oh Heaven, his _legs_.

Every step felt like he was walking on broken glass that had been laced with salt. So it not only stung with every step, but it burned, going up the entire limb. His feet, like his hands, often went numb. And the pins-and-needles sensation tended to stick around for hours. Sometimes it was so bad, it would knock the wind from him and he would have to sit perfectly still so he wouldn't agitate it.

His knees were incredibly stiff and yet altogether too loose and wobbly. His hips compensated for the stiffness but he often would stagger when he tried to walk, as his knees simply refused to bend. It felt like bone scraping on bone and sometimes when he was forced to bend his knees (stairs in particular were an invention from Hell, Crowley was sure of it), they would give a painful pop. Instead of feeling better, it would only cause a burst of fire up and down his leg.

Eventually it became too much.

He had tried seeing a witch doctor back in the day. He tried modern medicine (or what was considered 'modern' for the late 1700s). He tried acupuncture and pills but nothing helped. As the doctor was leaving Crowley's place after another unsuccessful session, he turned to the demon with a frown.

"I'm sorry Mr. Crowley, but there's not much more I can do. Just take it easy. Get plenty of rest and drink lots of water. If I don't hear from you again, I shall pray for you."

Crowley scoffed. "I'd really rather you didn't," he said tersely and shut the door before the doctor could reply.

But then he started to think. Rest? As in, sleep? He eyed the cottage he called home. Sure, there was a bedroom, but that was mostly just for decoration. In case he had a guest over, he didn't want to explain why he didn't have a bedroom. That was the same reason why he had a kitchen. Although the always-fresh food inside the fridge, he would _not_ allow guests to eat. No, that was reserved for...someone else.

He stepped into the bedroom, and with a snap, he lit the lantern hanging just inside the doorway. The bed had a thin layer of dust on it but that was easily cleaned with another snap. Crowley stepped inside and drew the curtains closed against the afternoon sunlight.

What was the harm? He had never slept before, so why not try it out?

Crowley knew humans preferred sleeping in comfortable clothes. Usually petticoats or farm hats were not suitable sleeping material. He conjured himself a lacy, cotton nightgown and felt the material between his fingers. It was soft enough, better than the stuffy clothes of this era. Besides, he didn't plan on anyone seeing him.

He pushed himself onto the bed and winced when he felt how stiff the mattress had become. And yet, once he was on his back, the stiffness became a very good thing as it kept his spine aligned. But without the blood rushing into his legs, they immediately went numb and he had to wiggle his toes to force feeling back into them. When he lifted his head to look down at his feet, he immediately discovered a new problem.

His back cramped up in three places all at once. Just to the right of his neck, in the upper center of his spine, and in the lower center of his spine. Crowley gasped, eyes screwing shut and he held his breath, waiting for it to pass.

It didn't.

His shoulder remained tense, not even allowing him to lie his head back down to see if that would ease it. Everything felt locked in position and Crowley could do nothing to ease it. He groaned, an involuntary sound from deep in his throat.

When he realized that the pain would not stop, he forced himself to take three steadying breaths between clenched teeth, and threw himself to the side, allowing his cheek to press into the pillow while the cramps in his back burst alive and shocks of electric pain zipped through him as the cramps dissipated. He panted in relief and held his new position stiffly. He could feel an ache in his back, just under the surface, waiting to come back. He had forgotten about his legs, which were completely numb and useless to him at this point.

After about an hour, the threatening cramp started to fade as his body tried to make sense of why it was lying down. It didn't mean it was better. Oh, no. It just meant the imminent threat had receded three paces. The crick in his neck was still there and his legs felt like they were on fire with how bad the pins and needles had gotten. His arms were unhappy with lying so still as well, curled up by his face as he lie in a straight-backed fetal position.

How humans could rest at all seemed like a miracle. Maybe it was, he reasoned, if he—a demon—could not do it.

An unknown amount of time passed. It could have been another hour, it could have been a week. Crowley had no idea. All he knew was that his body felt like it was floating.

Slowly, then all at once, this floating sensation had started. The sounds from the outside faded into silence, the dim sunlight that somehow managed to filter between the curtains faded to darkness, and, best of all, the pain that had held Crowley deep in its clutches for so long had faded to relief.

He was safe here, in limbo. Not in Heaven or Hell or even on Earth, really. A small pocket of solitude that was quiet, dark, and painless. Crowley wished to stay there forever.

But as life would have it, consciousness came back to him.

Rather, it _slammed_ into him and left him breathless and nearly retching with how bad the pain had become.

His back, his shoulders, his neck, his hips, his feet, his hands, his head.

He attempted to sit up so he could properly clear his head and get himself together again, but his body refused to move at all. When he slowly straightened an arm, he felt the small grind of bone on bone and winced. It felt as though he were coming back to life.

Sitting up was an ordeal. The amount of aching that burned through him made him nauseous and it started to manifest itself into a migraine, which was exactly what Crowley needed at that moment.

He knew he should get back to work. But he was in so much pain and resting—sleeping—had felt so good. He clumsily got to trembling legs and limped to the bathroom. He was sure he was going to vomit with how badly his head was spinning. But nothing came up. He splashed his face and shuffled to the front door to peer outside. It was dawn. He must have slept all night, then.

He paused when he looked outside. He prided himself on a rather nice garden and thought of himself as having a green thumb. And yet when he looked out, all of his lovely green plants were brown and dry. That made no sense; he had just watered them yesterday, before the doctor came. He shuffled outside, not caring that he was still in his nightgown, and held a leaf between his fingers. They were dead. Well and truly dead.

Confusion creased his brow. When he looked up, the neighborhood he lived in was different. Not by much, but there was a different aura to the small town. One he couldn't quite place.

Crowley waved down someone who was passing by on a horse, wincing when he had to jog to catch up to them before they stopped. "Excuse me, I'm so sorry, but what day is it?" He asked. Perhaps he had slept longer than he thought.

"Why it's the day the electoral change goes into effect, milady," the man said, removing his hat and gesturing with it to the courthouse. Crowley blinked, not bothering to correct the man. He'd been called every gender at this point.

"Electoral change?"

"Your husband has not informed you of the new Parliament that Prime Minister Charles Gray has initiated?"

Crowley's jaw dropped slightly and he had to take a moment to make sure his voice was calm. "The Prime Minister is not the young William Pitt?" Now it was the man's turn to frown deeply.

"William Pitt? No, though that name does sound familiar. I think he was Prime Minister when I was a wee lad. But I could be mistaken, as there have been many."

Crowley's mouth was dry and if his voice cracked when he asked his next question, neither of them commented on it. "Sir... what year is it?"

"It is 1832 milady. Are you feeling alright?" He started to dismount the horse, but Crowley quickly put his hands up to stop him.

"No! I mean– Yes, I'm feeling alright. Please don't let me interrupt your day any more than I have." And with that he turned and quickly shuffled back inside his cottage, leaning against the closed door, eyes wide as he took in his cottage, coated in dust and in obvious dilapidation. "Thirty-five years," he breathed, barely able to wrap his brain around it. And it had passed in the blink of an eye. Quite literally. When he closed his eyes it was 1798 and the next time he opened them it was 1832. He wondered what had happened during that time. Had Hell even noticed he was gone? He wasn't discorporated and he didn't have an angry summons to see his superiors, so he figured he was in the clear for now.

His eyes slid toward the bedroom again.

No! He had work to do. The Earth wasn't going to corrupt itself!

...right?

Then again, the humans had an uncanny ability to cause chaos amongst themselves. Temptations Crowley had never even thought of, wars that had seemingly no point...people hurt other people whether Crowley was there to cause it or not.

It was that thought that had him drifting back to the bedroom.

If it didn't matter if he did anything, then why do anything at all? Besides, he was in pain and sleeping had felt so good. A few more years wouldn't hurt anyone.

He stretched out on his stomach on the bed, allowing his back to pop into a less painful position. His legs and arms went numb but he welcomed it as the haze of sleep quickly erased his building migraine and the tremors in his limbs became background noise.

Within minutes he was asleep once more, and he wouldn't wake again until the turn of the century.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: we get to see what Aziraphale gets up to while Crowley's sleeping. Mind the tags and trigger warnings; next chapter (lust) is not a nice one
> 
> Make sure to leave kudos and/or comment if you enjoyed!!
> 
> UPDATE: Wonderful art by the incredibly-talented [FreedomAttack](https://freedomattack.tumblr.com/)! Make sure to go give her lots and lots of love!!


	4. Lust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale's temptation of a man at the gentleman's club goes wrong (mind the tags and fic rating)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is as bad as it gets with this story. Nothing too graphic, but a lot of introspection during and after a rape. If that will trigger you, skip ahead to after the line break about halfway through, where Crowley comforts him. Or feel free to skip this chapter altogether

1888 AD

Aziraphale had been part of the discreet gentleman's club for a few years and even though attendance was starting to dwindle, he still dutifully went to every meeting they had. They still somewhat danced the Gavotte, but they were slowly becoming a different type of club. One where young men came, often for only one meeting (rarely would these men actually dance) to chat amongst themselves and with the regulars, and oftentimes they would pair off to go to a secluded location.

He wasn't daft; Aziraphale knew what was going on. And if he was honest, some part of it interested him. After all, he enjoyed other human activities. Like breathing, eating, talking, reading, dancing... Why not try out a new one?

He would never initiate, he told himself when he learned what their little club had turned into. He would go to the meetings and chat idly and dance and see if anything happened. None of the men there were Aziraphale's type. Not that he knew what his 'type' was, but he had asked an older lady a couple years ago what it was like to be in love the human way, and she told him that it was a warm feeling that made you forget how to speak. Your breath gets stolen away when you look at them and you'll do anything to protect them. He had yet to experience that with these men.

Aziraphale had mulled that over in his head for a while. He loved everyone, sure, but that was part of being an angel. He wanted to know what it was like to feel love like a human. And what better way than to sleep with one? After all, that's what sex was, right? An act of love? Provided, there were many other—less messy—ways to show someone you love them. (Like send letters to their head office pretending to be them so they can sleep for 90 years uninterrupted.)

Aziraphale reasoned that sex was simple enough in its own regard. With enough friction and lubrication, the male body can reach a peak of pleasure that allowed them to release the seed to potentially grow a family. He had just never done it before. From all the books he read, it was an amazing experience. Some would even call it heavenly, though Aziraphale highly doubted that. It was, however, a powerful bonding tool humans used that required huge amounts of trust and love to unite their souls, if only for a moment.

And Aziraphale craved that closeness, if nothing else.

He sat off to the side, posture rigid as he watched small groups forming, and he took a deep breath, watching them wistfully. From the corner of his eye, Aziraphale saw a strapping young man approach him and hold a glass of amber liquid out toward him.

Aziraphale looked up in surprise. "Oh?" He reached up for the drink and took it with a smile.

"You looked lonely," the man said in a low voice. Aziraphale's heart immediately started to speed up. He had been watching the interactions of the club for years, and this was often how anything started. He schooled on a calm expression and took a sip. Whiskey. Not Aziraphale's favorite, personally, but it was something to get buzzed quickly on. The man's aura held a wash of sadness and longing, and Aziraphale felt his heart go out to him.

"I was," Aziraphale said, lowering his voice as well. After years of playing the demon, both as part of the Arrangement and as literally pretending to be Crowley for nearly a century, he considered himself rather good at faking he was something he wasn't. The man wasn't Aziraphale's type, but he wanted to try coitus anyway—and the man wasn't awful to look at—so Aziraphale decided he would pretend he wanted the man standing in front of him. Besides, if nothing else, maybe he could comfort the man since he seemed so sad anyway. Aziraphale took another drink and let his tongue poke out of his mouth suggestively as he licked the remnants from the corner of his upper lip.

The man reacted immediately, swallowing down his whiskey in a single shot, and pulled Aziraphale to his feet before allowing Aziraphale to finish his drink as well, while holding onto his hand. "Well then," the man said, taking the empty glass from Aziraphale and allowing their fingers to brush suggestively. "Shall we both be less lonely somewhere else?"

Aziraphale, breathless, nodded eagerly.

It was finally happening!

It didn't take long for it to go downhill.

During the whole carriage ride, the man continuously pawed at Aziraphale through his clothes and the angel felt incredibly self-conscious of everyone they passed, unable to look away from his hands wringing in his lap. Once they made it to some scruffy inn and checked into a room—with only one bed, Aziraphale realized with a rush of what he assumed was excitement—the man abandoned any sense of modesty and quite literally jumped onto Aziraphale as soon as the door was closed.

He threw his arms around Aziraphale's neck and backed him up against the wall, where he ground his hips into him and started pulling at his bow tie and coat. "Lose the clothes," he growled in Aziraphale's ear.

Aziraphale was nervous and his body was held taut. But he took a deep, calming breath, and quickly obliged, taking off all his overclothes until he was left with nothing but his blue button-up and his briefs. He had been ready to take those off as well, but the man had grabbed his wrists and pressed him against the wall, crushing their mouths together for a wet kiss. Aziraphale held back a gag; the man tasted of whiskey and was shoving his cold, wet tongue between Aziraphale's lips. Suddenly Aziraphale wished he were more drunk for this.

Aziraphale held still and tried to return the man's ministrations, but he knew he wasn't doing it as eagerly as the man was lavishing them upon him. This was nothing like how the elderly woman had described affection. It was much more rough and Aziraphale was quickly finding himself uninterested. But he soldiered on and tried his best to copy the man, though his heart wasn't in it.

Soon enough, the man shifted his weight and Aziraphale felt the man's knee dig deep into his thigh. With a wince, he adjusted his own stance wider and suddenly the man's knee was grinding up against Aziraphale's groin.

Stars exploded across Aziraphale's vision at the sheer amount of pleasure that rocketed through him. He heard someone groan and he wasn't quite sure who it was.

His excitement renewed, Aziraphale started eagerly returning the kisses, meeting the man's tongue move for move in a slick dance.

Then it was gone. Aziraphale's eyes drifted open and he peered up at the man, who had stepped back so he could remove his own clothes.

"On the bed," the man grunted and Aziraphale quickly obeyed, climbing onto it and sitting up straight on his knees, like a puppy ready for a treat. The man chuckled and followed, only wearing his own briefs. He stood up on his knees and pushed Aziraphale to sit back on his heels while jutting his own hips forward, pressing his clothed erection into Aziraphale's chest. "Take them off," he demanded. Aziraphale swallowed hard and reached up, but the man caught his hand. "With your teeth."

Aziraphale felt blood rush to his face, and his crotch gave an interested pulse. So he placed his hands tenderly on the man's thighs and used his teeth to gently drag the elastic band down.

When the man's erection was exposed, he purposely ground his hips forward into Aziraphale's cheek before the angel could pull away with a shocked expression.

"Oh don't look so surprised," the man said with a dark smile. He cupped Aziraphale's chin to meet his eyes. "We're only just getting started."

It went on for a while.

If he was being honest, Aziraphale was not enjoying it. But he refused to tell the man to stop. After all, the man had been so lonely and sad. Aziraphale hoped once the man reached his release, he would feel less sad. And maybe a little more loved. That was what sex was about, right? Aziraphale struggled to remember.

The man was taking a long time. It was going on two hours and the man was growing increasingly feral. Aziraphale—completely nude by now—was propped up on all fours on the bed, while the man—equally nude—rutted into Aziraphale's body from behind. Aziraphale held himself stiffly, shoulders raised to his ears with his head bowed low as the man grew more and more frantic, fingers scratching deep lines into the soft fat at Aziraphale's hips. He winced and had to consciously tell himself to relax. He had learned quickly that relaxing made it hurt less.

Aziraphale was _not_ enjoying it at all.

From all the books he had read, sex was something both parties were supposed to enjoy. It was a give and take of love. But all Aziraphale could feel in the room was a lustful heat from the man and his own lust that had faded into reluctancy and fear. He didn't think it would take this long and would be this uncomfortable and, frankly, embarrassing. Aziraphale wondered how far the man's stamina would take him. It seemed rather exhausting.

The man pulled out—which hurt more than Aziraphale thought it would—and tugged Aziraphale's shoulder to roll him over to lie flat on his back. The man tried a new tactic: stroking the angel's soft member and then sucking him down. Aziraphale knew the man was trying to help him reach his peak, but he just couldn't get himself into the mood anymore. His body had responded initially to the touches, but it had plateaued before he began to lose interest, to the ever-growing frustration of the man.

Aziraphale pushed himself up on his elbows and looked down to watch the man bob his head, but felt guilty that he wasn't giving him what he wanted. He gently placed his hand on the side of the man's head. "I'm sorry, I don't think–"

"Shut up." The man lifted off Aziraphale with a snarl and used one hand to shove him in the chest so he was knocked down to lie flat on the mattress once more.

Aziraphale's mouth dropped open slightly, indignant. "I just don't–" This time, the man crawled up over him and placed a hand flat against Aziraphale's mouth and pushed the angel's head to the side and into the mattress, effectively quieting him. He shoved Aziraphale's knees apart, lined himself up, and pushed in for the umpteenth time, ignoring—or perhaps not even noticing—the noise Aziraphale made as he tensed.

The mood had shifted. It was even heavier with lust and something much darker now. Almost evil. Fear settled in Aziraphale's chest and he cracked his eye open, peering around the man's splayed fingers to look up into his eyes. Maybe the man was possessed? It would explain the dark demeanor and how rough he was being. The man's eyes were dilated darkly—though Aziraphale didn't see any demonic presence—and he found himself regretting his decision to go to bed with him.

Aziraphale felt sick, and like a splash of cold water, he lost any flicker of desire to continue to be in the room with the man. He had to get him to stop. This wasn't working and it was just frustrating the man instead of helping him, and it was beginning to frighten Aziraphale. So he gathered up a breath in his lungs and called out, muffled against the man's hand, "Stop!"

The man didn't stop. He didn't seem to hear Aziraphale, and for a moment the angel wondered if he had spoken aloud at all. Aziraphale shifted and made to say it again, but the man tightened his grip over Aziraphale's face, preventing him from saying anything.

Aziraphale's pulse skyrocketed, his body became incredibly hot, and he could feel his consciousness wavering as a ringing cotton filled his ears. He wasn't sure what was going on, but was determined not to lose consciousness. He reached up and pried the man's fingers off his face before looking the man square in the eyes. "Stop, please."

"You'll have to beg harder than that," the man rumbled, picking the pace up and snagging Aziraphale's wrist in a crushing grip as he pushed his arm over his head, and Aziraphale's throat went dry. Did he think Aziraphale was trying to role-play? Pretending to be afraid to get himself back into the mood? No, definitely not. And he wasn't about to beg the man to stop. So he freed his other hand from its death grip on the duvet to snap his fingers.

The sharp sound instantly made the man fall unconscious, slumping atop the trembling angel. He didn't even realize he was shaking until he had to push the man off him to get up. Aziraphale clumsily fell off the bed, wincing when he landed on his sore bottom and his vision whited out. It took a moment for him to catch his breath, and after a healing and cleaning miracle, he pulled his clothes back on. He wanted to miracle them back on and just be done with it, but he felt like he needed the action of re-covering himself again. The buttons were rather difficult with his hands shaking as bad as they were, and he opted to leave his vest undone and his bowtie off even as he pulled on his thick coat over everything.

He only glanced once at the man asleep on the bed to make sure he wouldn't wake as Aziraphale made his escape. And soon enough the angel was on the streets, walking quickly with no destination in mind. He assumed he was heading to the bookshop, but somehow found his way to St. James' Park.

Still shaking, he sat down on his and Crowley's favorite bench, and–

Oh Heavens.

Crowley.

What would Crowley think? He was bound to find out about Aziraphale's...endeavor...today. Aziraphale was awful at keeping secrets. Maybe if he didn't bring it up, Crowley wouldn't say anything either, and he could forget it had happened at all. After all, Crowley was still asleep and had shown no intention of waking anytime soon. He had never missed Crowley as much as he did right then, and the sudden longing startled him.

Aziraphale hugged his arms tightly around himself, not caring that he didn't look the part of an angel of God. He was scared and hurt and he felt used and betrayed and lonely. He was allowed to sulk. He watched a trail of ducklings follow their mother and let his mind wander.

Was something wrong with him? Why couldn't he enjoy the experience with the man? Was he broken? The man was trying so very hard to make sure Aziraphale enjoyed himself, and yet he just couldn't get into the same lust-driven mood the man was in. He felt guilty that he had to call it to an end, but it was getting rather uncomfortable. Even now, he could still feel the man's fingers pressing into his cheeks, his nails digging crescents into soft hips, the scrape of teeth against hot flesh, the painful pressure down below. And instead of turning him on, Aziraphale found himself repulsed. How had he allowed himself into a situation like that to begin with? It was completely disgusting and there was no love or trust. It was not true sex. It was mere fucking. Like the rutting of animals in heat.

Aziraphale felt dirty. Felt ill. He _really_ wasn't feeling right. His eyes were unfocused and his hands kept wringing around each other restlessly. His stomach felt like it was in knots and he suddenly craved a very long, very hot shower.

* * *

1900 AD

It was the first time Aziraphale had seen Crowley in a painfully long time.

"Did you enjoy your nap?" Aziraphale asked teasingly as they walked down the road, to which Crowley rolled his shoulders and winced when an audible _pop_ rang out.

"Eh, yeah. I think it was a mistake to go for so long though, my bones feel like they solidified. Small naps from now on. Human-length naps."

Aziraphale chuckled and the smile reached his eyes for the first time in years. "The humans are rather good at knowing how best to care for their bodies."

Crowley's eyes widened. "Oh! I have a fantastic idea. We can go dine wherever you like, then we can come back to my cottage for some alcohol. I've got a wine that has been aging since before my nap. It's bound to be perfectly ripe now, and I miss being drunk."

A soft smile pulled at Aziraphale's lips. Even after a hundred years, Crowley still knew him so well.

Lunch was delicious, as always. Aziraphale had to show Crowley about these wonderful inventions called automobiles that were quickly overtaking the horse and carriage for the preferred mode of travel. Crowley was interested in them right away and told the angel that he planned to get himself an automobile, the best one he could find.

They made it back to Crowley's cottage and he poured them both a glass of wine, perfectly aged. Crowley also had an old bottle of whiskey ready to go (and some beer, but it had gone rather yeast-y and he quickly binned it).

They drank for a while and chatted about nothing. It was perfect. When the wine ran out, Crowley opened the whiskey.

But as soon as Aziraphale took a sip, he was catapulted back in time.

That man was suddenly in front of him and was holding Aziraphale's chin roughly while grinding against him, an evil smirk spreading on his face as Aziraphale sputtered.

Aziraphale dropped the glass and it shattered upon impact, spraying the drink everywhere.

Crowley's head whipped around, looked him up and down. "Aziraphale?" He asked cautiously. "What's wrong?"

The noise had brought Aziraphale back to the present, and he was about to reassure him that nothing was wrong, but the fact that it was a lie made it impossible for him to say it. Aziraphale had lied to both of their head offices by now, and to plenty of humans, but he had never lied to Crowley. And he wasn't going to start now.

He felt his face grow hot as the emotions from the awful memory pulsed through him, and his eyes went blurry. He knew the fact that he was somewhat inebriated was affecting his ability to push his emotions away, but he couldn't bring himself to fight it very hard even though he hadn't planned on telling Crowley.

Instead of responding with words, Aziraphale looked down and wrapped his arms around himself, suddenly feeling very small.

Crowley was there immediately, stooping to see Aziraphale's face while murmuring gentle things into his ear. "Hey, c'mon Angel. It's alright, you're alright. I'm here. Come on now, what's the matter?" He placed a gentle hand on Aziraphale's knee, which caused a jerky movement as Aziraphale's body remembered and moved on its own to get away from the touch.

Immediately, Aziraphale felt guilty. "I'm sorry," he whispered, eyes squeezing shut as he curled tighter over himself. Vaguely, he saw Crowley stand up.

Crowley rushed around the room, making something to drink and adjusting this or that. Aziraphale was too tired and drunk to really follow what he was doing.

After a moment, Aziraphale had a warm blanket around his shoulders and a hot cup of tea in his hands. Crowley perched on the arm of the sofa, resting his elbows on his knees with a tense expression as he watched Aziraphale sip his tea.

Aziraphale made it a point to look only into the mug in his hands, staring at his ragged reflection and seeing the surface ripple with the shakiness of his hands. Slowly but surely, he felt his heartbeat slow into a more normal range. He was feeling marginally better but still felt fragile. Like any little thing could send him back into the memory again. He refused to meet Crowley's eyes. He deeply wished that he could just disappear.

There was a long moment of silence while Aziraphale drank his tea. Soon enough, Crowley took a deep breath. "Angel," he said softly. Softer than Aziraphale had ever heard him speak. "What happened?"

Aziraphale felt his voice choke up and he had to take a moment before he could admit, "I made a mistake."

"What kind of mistake?" Crowley's voice was sharp, but Aziraphale knew it was because he was worried.

"I thought I could help a human feel less lonely," he said quietly, tears blurring his eyes once more. "But I couldn't. It didn't work. I fear I may be broken–"

"Broken? Just because you couldn't help him?"

"–and the man was trying so hard but I couldn't give him what he wanted," Aziraphale said in the smallest voice. "I tried convincing myself I wanted to keep going, but it wasn't enough for him."

Crowley's grip on the sofa tightened as the demon understood what he was saying—rather, what he _wasn't_ saying—and Crowley had to take a calming breath before asking, "Did you tell him you wanted to stop?"

"Not at first. When I realized it wasn't working, then I said it. I think I did, anyway. I don't think he heard me the first time. And the second..." He faded off.

Crowley growled, a deep and angry thing. Aziraphale misunderstood it to mean Crowley was angry with _him_, and he curled up tighter under his blanket.

Crowley shifted to kneel on the ground in front of Aziraphale and leaned forward to make sure the angel heard him even as his voice grew wobbly and he couldn't control his hiss. "I'm not mad at you," he reassured first and foremost. "I'm angry with that man. You were not having a good time and you tried asssking him to sssstop, but he didn't. He was trying to ussse you, Azzziraphale. He'sss _sssssssscum_." He lifted a hand, intending to place on Aziraphale's shoulder to urge him to look up, to reassure him, _something_, but thought better of it at the last second and just let his hand hover as he said, "You did nothing wrong, Angel. Nothing at all."

Aziraphale's eyes were cloudy with tears but he still was able to see Crowley's hand, suspended near his face. His first instinct was to pull away, but he quickly threw that thought out. This was Crowley. Not the man. He wouldn't shove him into the mattress to silence him. Wouldn't make him beg to stop. So Aziraphale tipped his head forward to push his cheek into Crowley's waiting palm, making the demon startle but hold carefully still so he wouldn't scare Aziraphale.

Finally, Aziraphale looked up and met Crowley's eyes. He was both surprised and not to find that the demon's eyes—underneath the angry fire—held a few unshed tears as well.

Crowley shifted, rising up on his knees in front of Aziraphale. "May I hug you?" He asked gently, waiting until he got Aziraphale's quick nod of consent before he stood and pulled Aziraphale into a tight embrace, burying his face into the angel's shoulder. Aziraphale felt the dam break and soon enough he was sobbing on Crowley's shoulder, clutching at him as if he would disappear.

It had been so long since Aziraphale had felt loved. Heaven was strict with not showing favorites and not bestowing love. At least that's what his superiors had told him. (When he lived in Heaven, back before Earth had been made, he remembered it being a place filled to the brim with love. He had tried to recreate it on Earth with various Earthly pleasures. He had tried eating himself to happiness, had tried getting hobbies—look where his dancing hobby got him—had tried having a few pets for a while, but he always grew too attached and would be completely heartbroken when it died of old age.)

Everything he tried was never quite good enough and always left him with a little hole in his soul that he craved to be filled.

But now, wrapped in Crowley's arms, surrounded by the familiar scent of his friend and the strong comfort that only another immortal being could offer, Aziraphale finally felt that yearning deep inside him dwindle into contentment.

All the fear bled from his body and left his spine feeling like jelly. His body ached in so many ways. And yet he held on to Crowley, fearing that if he were to let go, he would never feel this content again.

It felt like hours. Aziraphale was utterly exhausted and he felt his body slipping in and out of consciousness in Crowley's arms. Crowley pulled back just a bit, thumbed away some of Aziraphale's tears, and smiled gently. "You can stay here tonight, if you want." Aziraphale's eyes grew wide and Crowley quickly added, "No strings attached. I'll even sit out here if you like. But my bed is rather comfortable and you seem like you could use some sleep."

Aziraphale's face crumbled into soft relief. He nodded. "I'd like that."

Crowley gave Aziraphale a set of miracled pajamas, which Aziraphale changed into with the snap of his fingers. Then he slowly made his way onto the mattress and settled himself into Crowley's bed. Crowley was turning out the light and was about to close the door on his way out, when Aziraphale called out, "Crowley dear?" The demon peeked back into the room. Aziraphale felt heat in his cheeks and he had to look away when he asked, "Stay?"

Crowley's face softened and he nodded mutely, stepping back into the room and sliding into the bed to sit next to Aziraphale, back propped against the headboard with a rigidity he never usually had in his spine as he peered around the room. He was so careful not to touch Aziraphale by accident, and Aziraphale couldn't help but feel like Crowley was guarding him.

The soft breaths Crowley took soothed Aziraphale and he felt himself relaxing into the blankets. He felt immensely better with Crowley next to him and almost immediately started drifting off. Nothing would happen to him while Crowley was there. He had been hurt twelve years ago and never really recovered from it, despite what he told himself. But for now he could rest.

For now, he was safe.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consent isn't the absence of 'no', but the presence of 'yes'
> 
> As always, beautiful art by the incredibly-talented [FreedomAttack](https://freedomattack.tumblr.com/)! Make sure to go give her lots and lots of love!!


	5. Greed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale saves books from the Nazi book burnings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale knows the fire will hurt him but puts his hands inside anyway (I labelled it as self-harm just to be safe)

1933 AD

Aziraphale was currently speeding to the State Opera Square. A few days prior, he had gotten the casual alert from his superiors that there was an unusual amount of demonic activity over in Germany, and that Aziraphale was to investigate and assist where needed. He had started the journey to Germany in a leisurely manner, planning on possibly seeing Crowley, thwarting him a bit just for show, trying some of the food they had in Germany, and then going back home.

It was as he was on the bus to Germany that he overheard some other passengers talking. And he learned what was really going on, and his casual trip became laden with fear and adrenaline. Books, beautiful tomes of knowledge and experience, were to be burned today. Some group of people, a student union of sorts, had set fire to thousands of books just four days ago. And today they planned to burn even more. It immediately sent a spike of panic through his soul and he redirected the bus toward the State Opera Square at an alarming rate, where he was now. He knew he was supposed to be here to help the citizens and perform miracles where needed, but he couldn't stop thinking about the books, and how awful it was that they were being destroyed so easily and for no other reason than to make some political statement. As time went on, Aziraphale was learning to resent politics more and more. So many innocents always got caught in the crossfire and it made Aziraphale sick to his stomach.

He smelled the smoke in the air before he could even see it, and his heart gave a painful squeeze. He needed to save as many books as possible. It didn't matter what they were about. If they weren't something he could sell in his bookshop, then he could give them away for free, provided the new owner would not destroy them. Either way, he had to save as many as he could.

The bus stopped and Aziraphale leaped out and ran toward the square, finally seeing the plume of smoke rising into the air and heard the crackle of a rather large fire. He paused for just a moment, the disbelief making him stutter. He could almost _hear_ the books screaming in pain over the loud crackle of flames.

He kicked himself back into gear and ran toward the large pile. A few people were around the other side, rescuing their own collections of books. Some uniformed officials were picking up stray books and tossing them into the flames. Others were ripping people's collections right from their arms just to throw them into the fire before the rescuer's eyes.

It was heartbreaking.

Aziraphale first and foremost cast a large miracle that would allow anyone who wanted to save the books to be undetected to the enforcers. He attempted to decrease the size of the fire since it was getting large and it was spitting sparks everywhere. He didn't want it to spread. The fire didn't appear to grow smaller, but in the end that wasn't much of an issue, considering the officials seemed to have it under control. Aziraphale didn't pay it much mind; after all, he was more focused on the books and the other people, like him, who were there to save the literature.

He realized that was a mistake when he snuck to the side of the fire, where the wind was blowing the smoke away from his eyes, blessed his arm for safety, and plunged his hand inside.

At first, his arm went numb, trying to process the exact amount of pain it was in. After it decided on an intensity, it sent the signal to Aziraphale's brain, and he _shrieked_.

Bodily throwing himself back to land on his side, arm clutched to his chest, Aziraphale heaved for breath, but it felt as though his throat had closed to the size of a straw as panic and fiery pain gripped his chest. Breaths rasping, he blinked the tears streaming from his eyes away, and raised his gaze to the roaring fire. He had cast a miracle on himself to protect his body from the flames. Why...?

He glanced down at his arm, white hot and throbbing intensely, and he saw why. Instead of black scorch marks on his arm, they were golden, streaked and already blistering. Aziraphale's eyes widened. Hellfire. Not pure hellfire, but hellish enough that Aziraphale couldn't miracle himself healed.

Diluted hellfire like this wouldn't kill Aziraphale. It would burn and burn, going through layer after layer of skin and bone and eventually it would burn the whole appendage away. But he wouldn't be discorporated nor would his soul turn to ash.

Aziraphale flexed his arm. It still felt like it was burning, as if he had dipped his hand into hot oil that clung to him even after he moved away from the pot.

His hand barely twitched, and even that small movement caused a sharp stab of pain up his shoulder. He whimpered, louder this time, both in frustration and in fear. He couldn't save the books.

...or could he?

His arm was already burned, it was already going to wither away, so why not save as many books as he could? Aziraphale staggered to his feet and shuffled toward the fire. A young boy ran up next to him, glanced at him just for a moment, and reached his own already-blackened arms into the fire to pull out a couple books. He grunted at the pain, but held on and carried his new treasures to a safe location. At least hellfire behaved like normal fire for humans. The burns would hurt, but they wouldn't lose a limb or die because of it, provided they were careful. But for Aziraphale...

Maybe if he used something else, he could use that to reach into the fire? He snapped his fingers on his good hand and summoned a fire iron into his burnt palm, and it took everything he had to force his fingers to curl around the metal. But even with the fire poker, he knew the intense heat would still touch his fingers even if he avoided the actual lick of flame.

As Aziraphale tried to psych himself up for reaching back into the fire, a few more people ran up and saved some books before scurrying away. Aziraphale took a deep breath and threw his aching arm toward the fire.

_HOT_, his brain screamed at him, and Aziraphale tasted metal. He was vaguely aware that he had unconsciously clamped his teeth down onto his lip so hard that he tasted blood, but that was something he could worry about later. His hand was reignited with pain and his fingers felt like they were burning right off.

Breaths hissed between his teeth as he forced his charred fingers to work the iron poker around a book and pull it out, throwing it safely aside. His hand felt like it was _made_ of fire, his veins filled with lava, every nerve alight with snapping, scorching pain. He was only able to dig out one more book before his hand gave out and the poker fell from his weak fingers and clattered to the ground. He sunk to his knees next to it, clutching his arm to his chest

Aziraphale groaned, feeling dizziness start to swarm around him, and closed his eyes. The wind suddenly shifted direction and Aziraphale inhaled a mouthful of hellfire smoke. It instantly sealed his throat completely and seized up in his chest. He fell back and to the side, coughing so hard he began to gag, but not making a sound besides a tiny squeak with every ragged cough.

The books, he had to save the books! But when he opened his eyes, he couldn't see anything but darkness. He could feel the infernal heat and tried to drag himself toward it. He had to save them. He needed to have them. He couldn't leave such knowledge to burn away if he could do something about it! They were his and he had to save them!

Distantly, he felt arms wrap around his chest from behind, and he was pulled backwards, away from the heat. Away from his books. He opened his mouth in a wail, but nothing came out. He was lucky he didn't need to breathe. He tried fighting the arms holding him tight, tried squirming away back to the fire poker. Back to the two books he saved, back to the growing pile of knowledge and ash that he would never get to read.

"_Sssstoppit Angel!_" A voice literally hissed in his ear.

He should know that voice.

He should...

...his books.

* * *

Warmth. That was the first thing Aziraphale noticed. It wasn't scorching and it wasn't painful, though his brain was immediately wary of any kind of heat, about the potential danger it held.

The second thing he noticed was how it smelled. He could only describe it as homey. At least to him, it felt homey. It smelled like a rainforest after a light shower; fresh and filled with life. Hints of spice here and there. And when he opened his eyes, he realized why it felt homey.

Crowley was sitting next to him, glasses elsewhere, bruised eyes watching Aziraphale's face intently. When Aziraphale focused his gaze on him, Crowley's mouth twitched into what might pass as a smile, but frankly he looked concerned and the dark bags under his eyes did nothing to make him look better.

There was a beat of silence, then Crowley asked, "How's your throat? Are you in pain?" Aziraphale lifted his arm—he still had his arm? He was sure it had burned away by now—and was surprised to see it wrapped in light bandages and not painful at all. He frowned in confusion and gently lowered his arm so he could feel his throat. It felt fine. He opened his mouth and tried words.

"Crowley?" His voice was huskier than he meant, and he had a feeling it was both because of all the smoke he had inhaled and because he had only just come back to consciousness. So he couldn't be bothered to feel embarrassed about it. He swallowed and was pleasantly surprised not to feel any remaining pain. Just a tad dry. His hand slid to land on top of Crowley's, which was resting on the edge of the sofa Aziraphale was lying on. "I'm okay," he reassured. "What's going on?"

Crowley scowled. Now that he knew Aziraphale was alright, he could be cross with him. "What's going on is that you decided to go down to Nazi Germany and stick your arm inside some _bloody_ hellfire to save some _stupid_ books." His hand tightened on Aziraphale's. "I was all the way over here and I _still_ felt it when you screamed in pain, Angel." Crowley's eyes grew haunted. "I was sure you had been, at the very least, discorporated. I teleported to you and saw you dragging yourself back toward the fire, arm burned to Hell, unable to breathe, wheezing something about 'saving them'. You didn't even recognize me when I pulled you away."

Aziraphale looked down guiltily. "I was supposed to be making miracles since there was a lot of demonic activity there. But I got distracted with the books. I couldn't let them burn them, Crowley." He looked to Crowley with pleading eyes. "You know that."

"I know," Crowley's face lost its anger and he held tighter to Aziraphale's hand. "You're lucky I'm a demon and could draw the hellfire out of you before there was any irreversible damage, you know."

"I know," Aziraphale parroted Crowley, and gave him a grateful smile. He may not have ended up saving any books that day, but at least he was still alive, thanks to Crowley. "You've gotten me out of a few bad situations lately." It was a statement that hid the gratitude he really wanted to say.

Crowley understood anyway and gave Aziraphale a soft smile. "I'll always help you whenever I can, Angel, no need to worry about that."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Make sure to leave kudos and/or comment if you enjoyed!
> 
> UPDATE: Wonderful art by the incredibly-talented [FreedomAttack](https://freedomattack.tumblr.com/)! Make sure to go give her lots and lots of love!!


	6. Gluttony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley overindulges on drugs and struggles to sober himself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: panic attack, vomiting
> 
> Early update!! I dunno, I felt like posting it now cuz this was a fun chapter to write, not gonna lie xD And I want you all to enjoy it sooner rather than later lol

1968 AD

It wasn't one of Crowley's better ideas. Tempt a small group of young hippies to try LSD by posing as a young adult and joining their little hippie circle in the middle of a small, rarely-used park. They had already been passing around the weed so no one really noticed or cared when Crowley joined them. He casually produced a mairjuana joint from seemingly nowhere and watched everyone's eyes land on him. He gave a lopsided grin.

He'd never tried pot before. Tempted plenty of people into doing it, sure (and there were a few people here who had been smoking since they were teenagers, thanks to Crowley), but never partook himself. It was becoming more mainstream now, especially with the outcast crowd. Crowley took particular pride in starting the hippie movement, though he wasn't technically sure if he had anything to do with it at all. But Hell didn't need to know that.

Not wanting to be left out anymore, he conjured a lighter and took a puff of his spliff before passing it on to the left. Immediately he was met with some satisfied grunts and bobbing nods. He turned his laugh into a sharp exhale instead. All of them were rather wasted, weren't they?

Crowley enjoyed drinking alcohol, he figured this would be the same. But he had never really smoked before. He had tried cigars back when they were popular in the 1500s, but never cigarettes or marijuana. So when the joint had made its way back to Crowley, he took another small hit, gathering the smoke just into his mouth before puffing it out like he would a cigar. It tasted disgusting, but he made a point not to make a face. He did this a few times and was starting to feel a little lightheaded along with an increasingly dry throat, but nothing too noteworthy was happening.

Now came the fun part. The LSD. It was still relatively new, so he had to bring it up casually. "Hey, I have something new," he said slowly, feeling his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth.

"Show it here," one lady said, slouching back onto her friend who was attempting to braid flowers into her hair.

Crowley pulled a pack of tabs from his pocket and showed them to the five or so people who were leaning in to see. "It's acid, you heard of it?"

There were a few eager nods and a few confused faces.

"Acid, LSD, tabs, whatever you want to call them. They're an incredibly powerful hallucinogen, if I do say so. Cost a fortune, these. Only for my best friends." He had their attention now and the circle tightened around him. He held up the pack and started to separate the tabs. "You put it on your tongue," he said, reciting the dealer he had bought them from. Marijuana he could conjure from nothing. But this required a little more finesse, so he simply conjured the money to pay for it illegally instead. And it did cost a small fortune, indeed. But money didn't matter when you were a demon.

He started to pass them out, making sure everybody got one. He wanted to make sure everyone got thoroughly high. Maybe they'd become drug dealers later in life and Crowley would get a commendation. After everyone had a piece, they all put it on their tongue, Crowley included.

Crowley tasted metal—almost like blood—and decided he rather didn't like the taste of drugs. First the marijuana tasted like burnt leaves, now the LSD tasted of blood. It was official, he preferred alcohol.

While they waited for it to take effect, they continued to pass the marijuana around and around. Crowley ended up conjuring another two joints just to keep the party going. He was having fun, after all. And he learned how to smoke it correctly, drawing it deep into his lungs where he couldn't taste it and where it would go to his brain faster. And he was becoming rather stoned very quickly. It was barely half an hour since they had taken their tabs, and Crowley already felt like he was floating.

Apparently, he thought to himself, being a heavyweight in alcohol meant nothing in regards to other influences. Because despite feeling like he was floating, he still grew somewhat paranoid that he was standing out as a newbie and a lightweight. Of course, he wasn't standing out—And if he was, everyone else was too distracted by their own high to really pay much attention if Crowley was indeed acting odd.

He had somehow managed to take the one lady's place and was having flowers braided into his long hair. _When had it become this long...?_ The gentle touches on his scalp and the hums of half-aware songs filled his senses and it was all Crowley could think about. The ground swayed underneath him and he found himself humming along, though he wasn't sure if anyone really knew what they were humming.

A few got up and started dancing, enjoying the struggle of staying upright, no doubt. Crowley wasn't sure he could stand up at this point, since it felt like the ground was lurching like a boat on the sea. He sunk deeper against the woman playing with his hair, and she murmured something to him that he responded to with his own murmur. He had no idea what she said or what he replied.

Someone opened a pack of snacks—Crowley couldn't be bothered to remember the name—and he soon enough found himself munching on some kind of biscuit. He had never really been fond of eating human food, but he was too stoned to care, and the various snacks and biscuits and junk food helped ease the unpleasant rumbling in his stomach.

Something touched his shoulder and when Crowley opened his eyes, he was amazed at how much color existed in the world. He stared up at a tree and marvelled at the fifteen different shades of green on the leaves. It took a while for him to remember why he had opened his eyes, and when he was able to focus, he saw someone with a dopey grin on his face, holding a spliff out to Crowley.

Crowley dragged his focus to the gentle smoke twisting up off the end of the paper, and sluggishly lifted his hand to take it. His body jolted against the movement, trying to stop him. He was reaching his limit, he understood. But he ignored it. He liked this, and he wanted more. He was hungry for more. He _needed_ more.

So he took it and pulled another deep draw into his lungs. It immediately went to his head, and he felt his eyes roll back as the acid spiked in his veins. Instantly, he was incapable of sentences. His brain turned into cotton and he wasn't sure up from down. The people were still dancing around him and above him and below him and Crowley felt both inside out and backwards and he had to close his eyes.

Paranoia struck fast and hard. He threw himself forward and away from the soft touches that had begun to feel like electricity against his skull. Everything was moving around him and Crowley suddenly felt like he wanted to be anywhere else but there. Someone said something and Crowley turned away from them, too distracted by the sensations his body was going through to try to even attempt to speak to someone.

"Sick," Crowley murmured to himself (though to anyone else it just sounded like '_sssssk..._'), referencing the nausea that swirled inside him, and he braced himself on all fours, trying as hard as he could to relax. But the more he tried to relax, the more tense he became.

Time was going both far too fast and dragging at a crawl. The circle slowly dispersed as everyone began to experience the high, staggering much more than before if they were able to stand at all. Crowley (and a few others) couldn't move, though Crowley was frozen in place with the fear that if he tried to move, he would fall over. And for some reason that terrified him. He didn't want to fall. _Not again._

Someone touched his back and he could have sworn he had been shot with how painful the touch was.

Fear struck through his whole being and he went rigid, elbows trembling with the Herculean effort of holding himself up. Slowly, he leaned his forehead closer to the ground and used it to help guide him fully to the floor so he could lie curled up on his side. The hand returned between his shoulder blades and someone said something indistinguishable. Crowley jerked away and slurred some kind of reply. Everything lurched around him and he would have sworn they were having some kind of earthquake. He braced one palm on the ground by his face and tried to will himself sober. The hippies were wasted, the temptation was over; he could be sober now.

Nothing happened.

With a cry of frustration, Crowley squeezed his eyes shut and tried again, tensing like he did when clearing his system of alcohol. But it didn't work. His brain kept drifting away from him like a cloud on a windy day. The person grabbed his shoulder, eliciting a sharp yelp of pain and confusion and fear, and Crowley's blurred vision saw a mirage of the young lady leaning over him, her mouth moving, but all he could hear was his heartbeat rushing in his ears.

He felt like he was going to die. He felt like he would never get back to normal, not after this.

He was going to die surrounded by some stoner morons because he couldn't recover from a minor temptation gone wrong. How pathetic. His eyes rolled back and he let his head fall limply back to the ground, cheek pressing into the grass.

Summoning all his strength was like trying to hold water in a sieve. It took every ounce of energy to focus long enough to even attempt to do a single miracle. And even then, it didn't work at first.

He desperately didn't want to be alone.

Thoughts became colors. All he knew was that he didn't want to be alone, and the one person he wanted to be with was Aziraphale. White, cream, soft blue. The angel would know what to do, he knew. That was the only thing he knew. Everything else was colors and sounds that made no sense. His fear became a deep red, his longing for Aziraphale swirled amidst the red in bright blue swirls. Speckles of yellow that almost looked like stars burst across his vision. The lady—brown and pink and green—looked down at him had three (or was it four?) heads and he could have sworn her skin was melting like a candle. Her words alternated from sounding like a tinny robot to as low as a gargoyle and back again. He couldn't take it. She was concerned and he didn't know what to do.

Aziraphale would.

It was only then that he was able to gather himself enough to perform the miracle. So with a _pop_, he disappeared and re-materialized inside Aziraphale's bookshop, still on the ground, moaning softly as the change of surroundings confused his brain. He'd make up a lie as to why he teleported himself directly into the center of A.Z. Fell and Co. bookshop when he turned in his report. But for now he just wanted the angel's company.

His head hit the floor but at the same time it felt like it passed right through the ground and he became incredibly disoriented and dizzy and it felt like his was tumbling over himself while staying in place. His fingers dug into the hardwood floor, trying to ground himself to stop the spinning.

Aziraphale shuffled out of his back office with a frown, reading glasses perched on the tip of his nose. "Who– Crowley?" He asked incredulously. He quickly set the book he was reading down, along with his glasses, and rushed to Crowley's side. "Crowley my dear, what's happened?"

Crowley could barely understand him. But he was able to focus long enough to get the gist of the concern, and opened his mouth to answer, but his tongue felt like it was glued to the top of his mouth and he couldn't form a single word. He gurgled wetly, face scrunching up when he wasn't able to articulate anything.

Aziraphale immediately started to panic. "Crowley?! What's going on? What's the matter?" Noises and colors and all the books and words and smells distracted Crowley and everything was too much. He groaned, eyes squeezing shut. He felt himself being lifted to lean against a steady, warm chest and he couldn't find the strength to even open his eyes. He hummed deliriously. Everything swam around him, from the sound of traffic outside to the soft beating of the angel's heart against his cheek to the sense of security and comfort that enveloped him as tightly as Aziraphale's arms. This was okay, this felt better. He wasn't alone anymore.

Crowley felt his stomach flip over when he felt Aziraphale's arms tighten and he suddenly wasn't touching the ground anymore. Panic seized him and he could feel himself shaking, unable to stop. The angel cursed quietly and miracled them up to his flat above the bookshop. Aziraphale jerked his head and the bed shook itself of the dust that had accumulated over the years before turning the sheets down on its own. Aziraphale settled Crowley in it, who bonelessly slumped wherever Aziraphale placed him. Crowley vaguely knew he should be in pain because he always took forever to get comfortable when first lying down, and yet wherever Aziraphale arranged him, he felt like he was lying on a cloud.

Crowley felt Aziraphale's hand rest atop his forehead and he hummed again, enjoying the sensation. It was quieter now, and less colors. And he didn't have to keep his balance. He was perfectly fine just lying down on the cloud with Aziraphale right next to him, thank you.

Aziraphale clicked his tongue. "What have you gotten yourself into this time, Anthony?" He muttered to himself and Crowley wondered when the bedroom had gotten such good acoustics.

Crowley tried to open his eyes but everything was still swirling and it made him feel ill. He closed his eyes again, but not before a hot, sour liquid filled his mouth. He swallowed it, not really caring what it was. After a moment, it came back and he vaguely realized it was vomit and that he shouldn't be swallowing it. He made an unhappy keening noise through his nose and attempted to sit up. How he was supposed to make it to the bathroom was beyond him, but he had to try. This was Aziraphale's flat, after all. He'd never forgive himself if he made a mess.

Aziraphale quickly realized what was wrong and Crowley felt a steady arm behind his shoulders lifting him to a sitting position, as a trash bin was pressed into his chest. Crowley blearily opened his eyes to make sure he was aiming right, and then he spit the sour mouthful into the bin. Once that was done, his stomach clenched and he gagged a few more times, bringing up everything he had consumed in the past hour, until there was nothing left. He was vaguely aware of Aziraphale speaking to him. "–alright dear, let it out. You'll feel better. Hopefully."

He did feel marginally better. Nausea still swirled inside him but he no longer felt like he was about to throw up. He made a small noise and let himself slump against Aziraphale's shoulder. Aziraphale snapped his fingers so the soiled bin disappeared, then he lowered Crowley to lie back down on the bed. "Can you understand me?" He asked. Crowley could have sworn the angel was shouting into an echoing cave, but then again maybe not. He nodded as best he could. It was much easier to understand him without all the other distractions and colors. "Were you attacked?" Crowley shook his head and felt his brain jiggle around inside his skull like jelly. "Poisoned?" He lifted his hand in a shaky, 'sory-of' movement. "Drugged?"

This time, Crowley forced his eyes open to meet his angel's, and groaned faintly. It looked like there were three—maybe five—Aziraphales above him and Crowley struggled to keep him in his sight, especially once he started moving around above the demon. He appeared to materialize and disappear without warning, and Crowley couldn't keep Aziraphale in his line of sight. It felt like every time he saw the angel, it was a completely new corporation. Eventually he could have sworn there were upward of ten angels in the room, and he had to close his eyes because that was stressing him out. Soon, the lights were dim, the room was warm, the only thing Crowley could hear was Aziraphale's anxious muttering, there was a cool cloth resting over his forehead and eyes, and finally Aziraphale's hand slid into his slack grip before giving a squeeze.

"Just bear with me a moment, dear. I'll have it out of your system in no time." Crowley could feel his consciousness wavering. The cool cloth blocked out any leftover light and it felt so nice on his heated face. He felt his heartbeat racing and his breaths were coming in ragged, but he still felt at peace. He felt safe. Aziraphale would fix this.

Sure enough, just as Crowley was teetering on the edge of unconsciousness, he felt Aziraphale's gentle touch on the top of his head.

It was a weird sensation, being forcibly sobered. He was used to doing it himself, so when he suddenly felt the cannabis and LSD leaking out of his body, out of his lungs and out of his bloodstream, it startled him back into consciousness. He was careful not to move as Aziraphale purged the drugs from him. The cotton in his head cleared and his hearing settled back into something more normal. His heartbeat slowed down too, and his breaths came easier.

Finally, Aziraphale pulled away and gave Crowley's hand a squeeze. "How do you feel?" The soft voice asked. Crowley took a deep breath and assessed himself. He was tucked in a couple cozy blankets, his head was no longer pounding, the towel was cool on his face, his stomach wasn't cramping anymore, and Aziraphale's hand was soft and warm.

"Much better," he said truthfully and reached his free hand hand up to relieve his forehead of the cloth, finally meeting Aziraphale's concerned gaze. "What a relief," he said more earnestly than he meant to.

Aziraphale's mouth pulled into a taut smile before concern overtook his features again. "What happened?"

"Temptation gone wrong, I think," Crowley said. Aziraphale nodded wordlessly.

"You're alright?" The angel asked quietly.

Crowley smiled gratefully up at him and gave his hand a squeeze. "With you around? Always, Angel."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is based on a personal experience (though I've altered it slightly so it fits the story), but basically everything Crowley feels once he becomes high is the result of a bad weed trip I had (paranoia and vomiting and the shakes and everything...though I wasn't on LSD so poor Crowley got the short end of the stick there), and I wish I had someone like Aziraphale to sober me up; I was ridiculously wasted and it was NOT a fun time.
> 
> tl;dr: Don't do drugs, kids...
> 
> BUT next chapter, Envy, is the last one! And I finished editing it yesterday (I'll do one more read through it tomorrow) and in total this story is about 22,000 words...which means Envy is over 5k words, oof  
I think you all are going to like it though! Next chapter is my favorite, heehee!!
> 
> UPDATE: Wonderful art by the incredibly-talented [FreedomAttack](https://freedomattack.tumblr.com/)! Make sure to go give her lots and lots of love!!


	7. Envy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley is jealous of Aziraphale's 'girlfriend'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nice, long chapter to round out this story! I hope you all enjoy; this one's my favorite!!

2020 AD

Crowley was sure that his new life with Aziraphale would be different. A turn for the better. They had averted the apocalypse, they tricked their head offices into leaving them alone, and he and Aziraphale were free to do what they wanted now. Crowley was so sure Aziraphale would want to spend every waking moment with him, since he no longer was required to obey his superiors. It was certainly what _Crowley_ wanted to do, and he had been confident that Aziraphale felt the same.

He wasn't sure why he thought Aziraphale would want to spend more time with him. In fact, he wasn't sure why he thought _anything_ would change. After all, Aziraphale still felt God's love; he hadn't Fallen, even after disobeying God directly. Aziraphale was still an angel. And Crowley was damned to eat dirt. Two opposite beings, on the same side, but of different chemical makeups.

His expectations of what he thought freedom with Aziraphale would be like was what made the current situation all the more difficult to come to terms with. It was the new year and he had it all planned out. He knew where he wanted to take Aziraphale to live, he knew where they could go for lunch if Aziraphale got peckish, he knew of a nice pond nearby where they could feed ducks to pass the time, and most importantly, he knew he wanted to make their happiness last for as long as he could.

So when he began to see less and less of his angel, Crowley grew concerned.

He didn't want to call himself a needy person, but he had it all planned out so he would always be by his angel's side. And yet, Aziraphale was purposefully avoiding him. Constantly showing up late to their outings with a halfhearted, nervous apology, leaving early with a vague explanation, always seemed to have something on his mind, and Crowley would have to repeat himself upward of three times before he got a reply, and even then, it was often very surface-level. It was driving Crowley mad.

When Aziraphale left Crowley's flat rather quickly on one occasion, Crowley decided enough was enough, and followed him. He transformed into a small snake and followed as silently as he could. He wasn't proud of sneaking around, but he had to know what was taking up all of his angel's time.

What he found broke his heart.

Aziraphale had taken the bus to the park. _Their_ park. He hurried off the bus and was heading toward a young woman, apologizing profusely. She waved it off and they began walking very close together. They had their heads tilted to one another as they talked, and they would occasionally point out things in the park as they walked in tandem.

Crowley slithered ahead and into the branches of a tree they would be passing under, just so he could get a glimpse of what they were talking about.

He saw Aziraphale chuckle and the sunlight twinkled in his eyes. Jealousy stole through Crowley so hard it took his breath away. What were they talking about that could make his angel so happy? He hadn't been able to make Aziraphale smile like that in weeks. The two stepped closer and Crowley strained to hear them.

"...a rather nice date," Aziraphale was saying, "one of our better ones, in my opinion. Oh! We must go to the Ritz next, I insist on showing you the lovely flowers that have taken up bloom there. They would make such wonderful bouquets that I think you would enjoy..."

_Oh…_

Crowley's heartbeat in his ears combined with the distance as Aziraphale and the lady walked away drowned out the rest of Aziraphale's conversation. But Crowley had heard plenty. Aziraphale was seeing this woman. It seemed like they were on a date. Heartbroken, Crowley let himself slide down from the tree. Hidden from view, he changed back into human form and leaned heavily against the trunk, his mind reeling. He must have taken too long to ask the angel out, he reasoned. Although, he thought he had made it clear that he liked spending time with him. He could have sworn that Aziraphale felt the same.

Maybe their different biology, regardless of their affiliation, turned Aziraphale off. Maybe Crowley never really had a chance with Aziraphale simply because he was a demon and Aziraphale an angel. He would have to ask Aziraphale if he really was dating the woman, get some kind of truth.

Crowley slowly started the long walk back to his flat. He needed to think and he thought best when he was walking. He thought sides didn't matter to Aziraphale. Especially not now that he had renounced Heaven and Crowley had given Hell the middle finger.

Or maybe it wasn't their sides at all. Maybe Aziraphale liked Crowley as a good friend. As someone who stuck around for six thousand years and got him out of trouble. But he didn't see Crowley as a suitable partner. And that stung more than Crowley expected it to. But he decided right then and there that he wouldn't try to force the lady and Aziraphale apart, despite his initial instinct. No, he couldn't hurt his angel in such a way. If Aziraphale was happy with her, then who was Crowley to tear them apart?

No, he thought—and a sinister, resigned smile spread across his face—he wouldn't directly break them up. But he would show Aziraphale that he was much better than some human female. In the end he would let Aziraphale choose. But Crowley planned on taking the woman down. Indirectly killing her with kindness, so to speak. He wasn't going to let Aziraphale go so easily.

So he changed directions and started making his way back to the bookshop.

About an hour later, Crowley was flipping idly through a book as he waited for Aziraphale to come home. He had no idea what he was thumbing through, but it was nice for his hands to do something while he waited. Soon enough, the bell rang as Aziraphale stepped inside, a large grin splitting his face. Crowley's eyes narrowed and he cleared his throat to announce his presence.

Aziraphale's head snapped up and his grin faltered only for a second before it seemed to grow wider. "Crowley!" He said, striding toward the sofa.

"Where've you been?" Crowley asked as casually as he could. Aziraphale's false smile completely dropped into something small and real, and he looked to the side, a light blush dusting his cheeks.

"Oh, you know. Around."

Crowley's throat grew tight. So, Aziraphale wasn't planning on telling him. Fine then. He could play dumb. After all, he didn't want Aziraphale to know he had been spying on him. "Gotta be careful with going around," he said, forcing an indifferent smirk on his face as he leaned back on the sofa, "it'll make you dizzy." Aziraphale snickered and his eyes twinkled like they did in the park and Crowley felt his heart skip a beat. It was working. "Angel," he continued, standing up and offering his hand to Aziraphale, "allow me to cook you a meal?"

"Crowley! Thank you," Aziraphale said, tone genuinely regretful even as he took Crowley's hand. "But I have already eaten, I'm afraid."

Crowley waved his free hand dismissively. "That's alright then, I'll brew you a nice cup of tea. Come sit at the table." They walked into the back room, where Crowley had dimmed the lights with a single thought. In the distance, they could hear light music coming through the open window as a stray breeze played with their hair. Aziraphale sat down, beaming, as Crowley went to the kitchenette and brewed a cup of tea the human way, exactly how Aziraphale liked it, with just the right amount of cream and sugar to make it sweet.

Aziraphale gave Crowley the softest smile as he said, "Thank you my dear." Crowley simply nodded in reply, not trusting his voice not to crack. It was a nice evening, and they settled into a pleasant silence.

Crowley fell asleep that night on Aziraphale's sofa. The angel was reading fervently and Crowley knew better than to interrupt the angel when he got into one of his moods. When he awoke the next morning, Aziraphale was still in the exact same position, hunched over a book, although the pile next to him was significantly larger.

Crowley sat up painfully and stretched his back with a groan that roused Aziraphale from his stupor. "What–?" Aziraphale asked, blinking rapidly. He saw Crowley blinking owlishly back at him and smiled. He let his gaze travel to the small clock on his desk, and nearly knocked the chair over with how quickly he stood up. "Oh!" He cried, closing the books and putting them away with a wave of his hand. "I'm so sorry my dear, I must be off. Please make yourself at home, I should be back in a couple hours."

And as Crowley watched, Aziraphale stood and straightened his bowtie, and left the shop without another word.

...ah. So it had worked, but only temporarily, Crowley realized. He needed to keep Aziraphale at home longer, somehow. Maybe he could pretend to be sick. Or even better, actually curse himself to be sick. Then Aziraphale would be forced to stay home and take care of him. He physically shook his head. No, he couldn't do that to Aziraphale. The angel got rather fussy when Crowley would fall ill. Likely because of the Incident with the Black Plague, Crowley was sure. Aziraphale still blamed himself even though Crowley insisted it wasn't his fault.

Aziraphale didn't come back to the bookshop until later that day. And by then, Crowley had already gone back home. The angel didn't want to spend time with him? Fine, then the feeling was mutual. Or, he could try to make Aziraphale think it was.

Crowley heard nothing from Aziraphale for the next two days. On the third day, the phone rang and Crowley had to physically hold himself back from leaping at the receiver. He took a deep breath to appear calm, and answered, "Y'ello?"

"Crowley? Hello dear, I just wanted to phone to see if everything was alright. And if it was, I was hoping you'd like to accompany me to the park? I've been yearning to feed some ducks..."

With a smirk, he replied, "What, you miss me?"

"Of course I do!" Aziraphale sounded almost scandalized, which sent confusion tumbling through Crowley's brain. Why would he miss him if he was newly dating—and Crowley had come to the only conclusion that Aziraphale was indeed dating—some girl? He frowned.

"Yeah, I'll feed ducks with you, Angel. See you in ten." Crowley hung up the phone and had to massage his temples. Sooner or later, he was sure Aziraphale was going to give him an aneurysm with the emotional whiplash.

It was the best time Crowley had had in a while, feeding ducks with Aziraphale. The angel kept recounting past times they had fed the ducks (though he conveniently left out when they had their little spat over holy water), and had the softest expression on his face. Crowley found himself mesmerized with how good Aziraphale's memory was.

"Are you sure it was 1963?"

"It must have been; their music hadn't quite made it to the public yet."

"Yes, but the Beatles? Are you sure it wasn't another band?"

"No, I'm quite sure. They sang their song about the yellow submarine. It was before it was published. They sang it right h–"

"Right here, I remember that. I didn't realize it was the Beatles."

Aziraphale beamed. "The sixties were such a time of love and freedom."

"And drugs," Crowley recounted with a shudder. Aziraphale gave him a look.

"...and drugs, yes I suppose if you insist." Aziraphale smirked at Crowley. "You did look rather nice with that flower crown woven in your hair," he mumbled almost so Crowley couldn't hear it. Crowley stiffened and was about to argue, but Aziraphale took off on a brisk walk toward a new flock of ducks, and the conversation stopped there.

But all good things come to an end, and soon enough the sun had set and they decided it was time to go.

And so it continued for weeks. Sometimes Crowley would invite Aziraphale somewhere, other times Aziraphale would insist Crowley come over for some reason or another. Now that Crowley knew he was competing with some woman, he had to make sure Aziraphale knew what he was going to lose. So occasionally, Crowley would play hard-to-get and say he was too busy to come over. Aziraphale always respected that, much to Crowley's dismay. He never pushed Crowley, never made him feel guilty for not spending time with him. It was infuriating because Crowley was itching to spend more time with Aziraphale and it was becoming painfully obvious that Aziraphale didn't seem to care one way or another if Crowley was there or not.

Crowley was trying so hard to seem indifferent, to match Aziraphale's casual attitude, but it was much harder than he thought it would be. But Crowley couldn't give in. At least, that's what he told himself. It was currently four days since Crowley had last spoken to Aziraphale, almost a month since Crowley found out about Aziraphale's girlfriend, and he couldn't take the distance any longer.

He walked right through the front door of the bookshop (ignoring the 'closed' sign in the window) and he went straight to the sofa and collapsed onto it. Up on his ladder, Aziraphale gave him a look from around an armful of books, but didn't say anything. Instead, after he was finished with that section, he went to the kitchen and gave Crowley a bottle of wine to entertain himself with, while he continued to tidy up his shop.

It was a pleasantly quiet afternoon. He and Aziraphale still hadn't technically spoken, but they didn't need words to fill the silence. A song was playing lightly from Aziraphale's gramophone and Aziraphale hummed softly along to it as he re-organized an entire section of his shop.

It was nice, Crowley could admit that. Just spending time with Aziraphale always felt nice.

Crowley had been drinking steadily and after a couple hours, he began to feel the buzz. He was perfectly content to fall asleep right there on the sofa. He was practically melted into it anyway. He let his eyes drift closed and was vaguely aware of the phone ringing. He heard Aziraphale's cheery tone answer it, but then it became conspiratorially quiet.

Interested, Crowley cracked an eye open. Aziraphale was hunched over the phone and murmuring softly. His whole body language screamed _secret!_ and Crowley sobered himself in seconds, barely noticing the bad taste it left. He had a whole new bad taste in his mouth.

"...no my dear, I'd love to chat with you, but there's a–" Crowley snapped his eyes closed and remained perfectly still as Aziraphale started to turn. After a moment, Aziraphale continued, "–bit of a hindrance at the moment, and..." There was a beat. "Ah, thank you for understanding. Are we still on for tomorrow night? I can be there around seven, if you like. We can chat then." Crowley dared to open his eye again. Aziraphale was facing him, beaming, but looking off to the side at nothing in particular. "Perfect, thank you my dear! I shall see you then."

He still wasn't good enough, Crowley realized. And part of him whispered, _you'll never be good enough_. Aziraphale was still seeing that woman, almost a month later. It was with a heavy heart that Crowley 'woke up' and mumbled something about needing to get home for some reason or another. Aziraphale gave him a sad look as he rushed out, but he couldn't dare to put any worth into that expression.

Crowley climbed into the Bentley and sped away.

He still loved Aziraphale, no matter what. He could admit that, but only to himself. It just hurt that the love was clearly unrequited, as Aziraphale had chosen some young lady over him. He had been trying so hard for almost a month to make Aziraphale change his mind. But in the end, he only wanted Aziraphale to be happy, and he seemed very happy with the woman, considering the lingering smile on his lips and how red his cheeks always were after each date. Aziraphale was clearly delighted with her. And if making sure Aziraphale stayed so lively meant sacrificing Crowley's own happiness, then so be it.

He drove home and collapsed onto his bed, burying his face into the pillow. For the next week he didn't move. And Aziraphale didn't call.

It hurt immensely, but it wasn't like they hadn't done this before. After all, they only really became friends after they had known each other for five thousand years. That was when the Arrangement came to be, and so before then they had spent hardly any time together, other than the occasional accidental run-in while doing their job. A week was nothing but a drop in the barrel of time that they had known one another. It shouldn't matter in the grand scheme of things.

But for Crowley, it felt like they were becoming strangers again and it was tearing him apart.

The second week was the most painful for Crowley. Aziraphale tried calling, but Crowley didn't answer. As the week dragged on, Aziraphale grew increasingly agitated and would call more often. On the sixth day, when Aziraphale was in the middle of arguing with the answering machine for the third time that morning, Crowley finally hauled himself out of bed to answer it. "What."

"C-Crowley? Are you going to listen to me or are you going to keep saying the same things over and over?"

"What do you want, Aziraphale?"

Aziraphale had tried stuttering out some reasoning, something about missing Crowley's company, some activity he longed to do. But Crowley grunted that he was busy. It tore at Crowley's heart when Aziraphale's voice dropped as he said, "Oh. Alright then, maybe another time!" He could almost see the despondent expression on the angel's face as he pretended to be unbothered. Satan help him, he had to stay strong.

But what confused him the most was how much it appeared to be affecting Aziraphale as well. He continued to call Crowley, despite the cold attitude he received every time. He kept trying to invite Crowley places, kept asking when he was free again. For every step back Crowley would take, Aziraphale seemed to take one forward.

At one point a couple days later, Crowley eventually caved to a short walk in the park. Despite preparing himself to push the angel away, he was surprised at how hard Aziraphale worked to keep the outing positive. _He_ would initiate conversation even when he was practically talking to himself, _he_ would point out things he thought Crowley might enjoy, and at one point _he_initiated a touch, and tried to take Crowley's elbow, but that was too much for the demon and he had subtly pulled away. (And don't get Crowley _started_ on what he thought the emotion was that passed over Aziraphale's face when he did _that_.)

Eventually, Aziraphale had seemed to have enough of it.

The next day, Crowley was lying on his bed in his flat—like he often did nowadays—and Aziraphale simply miracled himself inside and strode right to Crowley's bedside.

"Get up," Aziraphale said, his tone serious. Crowley felt his heartbeat in his throat. This was it, then. This was when Aziraphale told him he no longer wanted to spend time with him. That pushing him away was too hard and so he was putting an end to it once and for all.

Crowley debated just staying in bed. Then he could sleep for the next eon immediately after getting the bad news. But he could never refuse Aziraphale, so he reluctantly rolled out of bed and stood on the floor dressed in his silk night clothes and a sour expression.

Aziraphale looked him up and down, then snapped his fingers to dress Crowley in something worthy of going outside in. Crowley raised a tired eyebrow. He didn't plan on going outside, so he didn't see the need to be decent. Aziraphale reached forward and took Crowley's hand, only tightening when Crowley tried to tug it away.

"Aziraphale..." Crowley grumbled, eyeing his bed wistfully.

Aziraphale gave him a sad look. "Please come with me, Crowley?" Crowley groaned loudly but obediently followed as Aziraphale tugged him from the building.

As soon as they made it outside, Aziraphale's brow furrowed and he snapped his fingers harshly. Time froze around them. Crowley frowned; usually he was the one to do time-stopping miracles, not Aziraphale. He glanced at Aziraphale, who was regarding him with a soft, tender expression. Crowley swallowed thickly. "Get on with it then, Angel," he snapped, and Aziraphale bit his lip worriedly before stepping forward to stand in front of Crowley. He took both Crowley's hands and closed his eyes. Crowley felt a jolt in his stomach, and suddenly they were somewhere completely new, his vision wavering slightly. He held tighter to Aziraphale's hands and looked around fearfully. "What's going on?" He demanded.

When their surroundings came into focus, Crowley recognized Warlock's house. Aziraphale chuckled lightly, looking down at the ground. "You always had a way with kids," he said fondly. "Adults were easy for you to tempt. But kids? You always did everything you could to make sure no child suffered. Ever since the beginning, you had a way with kids." Aziraphale peered up at him through his lashes. "I saw you, you know. On the Ark. Breaking the rules so you could rescue as many children as you could." Crowley's mouth went dry. Aziraphale knew about that? "I always admired that about you," Aziraphale admitted and glanced away, toward the house, "how you could stay true to yourself despite everything. It's something I wish I had learned sooner. I prefer working with adults simply because they understand sentimental value and will not pester or defile something sacred. But kids are genuine, and they teach us so much. Reckless, at times. But deep down, infinitely genuine. And so are you. I think that's why you get along with them so well."

Crowley frowned, words failing him. Aziraphale closed his eyes again without another word, and Crowley gritted his teeth as Aziraphale transported them once more.

At first Crowley didn't recognize the place; it had changed so much in the past three thousand years. But in the distance stood the temple of the Pharaoh, and Crowley was overcome as memories of ancient Egypt flooded him. "The ten plagues were to descend upon the people," Aziraphale explained while gesturing with his arm, eyes misty as he, too, was lost in memory. "I was to aid Moses in saving the Israelites, you were Pharaoh's snake-charmer..." Crowley looked into the distance and saw how time had affected the once beautiful temple. The statues were crumbling, a few columns were gone. He let his eyes travel closer to where they stood and he tried to remember what it looked like back in 1248 BC. If he was correct, where he and Aziraphale were standing was where the Israelites had been held as slaves. This was their small village. Nowadays, it looked like a bustling city, with merchants and people moving along the road quickly. But everything was still frozen in time.

"...I wouldn't have held it against you if you did help the Egyptians, and you know that. It was your job. But when you made up your mind about what you wanted to do and who you wanted to help, there was nothing in this world or the next that could stop you. You knew the consequences for helping Moses and me, and did it anyway." Aziraphale smiled softly and tilted his head so he could look Crowley in the eyes. "You are so incredibly brave, my dear. Brave, and true to who you are, deep down. You don't let anyone tell you who to be. You're _you_, irrevocably and bravely _you_."

Crowley's mind was reeling. First he told him he was a genuine (albeit reckless) person, now this? What was Aziraphale playing at? He opened his mouth to ask exactly that, when he felt the jolt in his stomach again.

They were standing in front of a church. Aziraphale's fingers tightened on his. "Crowley, you know I care deeply for you," he said softly, still staring into Crowley's eyes. "When I first met you, I was wary of you. My adversary. Heaven had told me terrible things about you. And I was sure you would be all that, and worse. Demons were unpredictable, they told me. I had to expect the unexpected." Aziraphale stepped closer, nearly chest-to-chest. "But you're different than they said. You're a better person than them, and it took me a long time to see it." Aziraphale nodded toward the church. "It was right here, when you saved my books nearly eighty years ago, that I realized that you had gone from simply a friend, to someone I could see myself spending the rest of eternity with." Aziraphale's eyes welled with tears. "It was right here when I realized I love you."

Crowley froze. In their six thousand years of knowing each other, they had never used the 'L' word. Pieces started to filter through his brain and he held tighter to Aziraphale's hands, searching the soft face for a clue as to what he was planning. But Aziraphale kept focused on the task at hand. "A kind lady once told me long ago that being in love felt like your breath gets stolen from you and you would do anything to protect them." Aziraphale sighed dreamily. "I thought she was exaggerating, but I learned firsthand what it feels like to fall in love like a human, way back on that fateful night. And to be honest, she undersold it."

Crowley felt his own breath freeze in his chest, and his brows tightened as he was overcome with the urge to reach up to touch Aziraphale's cheek. It took an effort to remain still. The angel simply smiled warmly at him, then closed his eyes and they were on their way.

The next location was an easy one. The Ritz.

Aziraphale took a glass of champagne from the waiter frozen next to them, and handed it to Crowley before helping himself to a glass as well. "To the world," he said earnestly, reciting Crowley's toast for averting the apocalypse, but then added, "and to new beginnings." Crowley tapped his glass to Aziraphale's and drank the bubbles down in a single gulp, keeping up a mask of indifference. This time when they transported, he closed his eyes and held tighter to Aziraphale's hand, emotions threatening to overwhelm him. He wasn't sure how much more he could take.

He felt Aziraphale shift next to him, and when he opened his eyes, he was shocked to find them standing in the middle of St. James' Park, right next to their favorite bench. When he let his gaze land on Aziraphale, his heart nearly stopped. With one hand still holding Crowley's, Aziraphale had used his other to pull a small, white box from his pocket.

"Crowley," He was kneeling in the grass, looking up at Crowley—with the softest and most vulnerable expression Crowley had ever seen on him—and with his thumb, he flicked the box open. "Will you marry me?"

The glass disappeared from Crowley's hand and he fell to his knees in front of the angel, reaching up with both hands to frantically cup Aziraphale's cheeks, eyes darting between his eyes. "Aziraphale, this is not something you can be joking about," he said, feeling knots tighten in his stomach harder than he had ever felt before.

"I'm not joking," Aziraphale said earnestly, reaching up to secure Crowley's hand to his face and nuzzling into his palm. "There's no one in the entire universe I'd rather spend eternity with than you, Anthony J. Crowley."

"W– Uh... B-But..." Crowley fumbled for words even at the best of times. Now was the worst possible time, but he couldn't stop the stutter or the hissy undertone. "I mea– _Angel_, I c– what about the _girl?_" He blurted.

Aziraphale's brow furrowed. "Girl?"

Crowley swallowed thickly. "I... I know you've been sssspending time with a young woman. Aren't you in a..._partnership_ with her?"

It took a moment for Aziraphale to comprehend, and when he did, the bastard _laughed_.

Confusion and bitterness swelled up and he pulled away from Aziraphale, but the angel quickly reached out to cup Crowley's cheeks and tenderly ran his thumb under his eye. "All this time, I believed you were angry with me..." His expression grew fond, and he pulled back just an inch to restart time with another concentrated snap, then motioned to a young lady who was idling nearby, who had yet to notice their arrival. "Are you referring to her?" Crowley followed the gaze and saw the very woman he had been trying to thwart for the past month.

"That's her," Crowley said dangerously slowly. Aziraphale shook his head fondly.

"I don't know how you found out about her, you wily serpent." Aziraphale teased with a grin. "I thought you were angry with me, not jealous of a girl." He gingerly took Crowley's slack hand from where it rested near their knees, then called out, "Monica, come over here for a moment, my dear."

The woman turned wide eyes toward them and her face split into a grin as she strode over. "Is this the infamous Crowley I've heard so much about?" Aziraphale seemed to glow as he puffed his chest the tiniest bit and gave a single firm nod, fingers tightening around Crowley's hand. Monica held her own hand out toward Crowley with a warm smile, but the demon just looked at it warily. "It's nice to finally meet you! Mr. Fell and I have been working on this little project for a while now. I hope you liked it." She glanced down to the box laying between them, then to Crowley's empty finger, and her grin faded, hand dropping back to her side, unshaken. "Hang on, did he say yes?"

Aziraphale went pale as he looked back to Crowley. "Er..."

"Just one bloody minute," Crowley snapped, looking between the two. "You mean you've been planning...this," he pointed between himself and Aziraphale, "for the past month?"

Aziraphale nodded shyly. "Monica is my wedding planner. Unless you'd like a different one. But she's been very helpful in assisting me in remembering and organizing all the important parts of our relationship so I could show them to you too. That little trip down memory lane was originally planned to take place over the span of a week, but you were always so busy, I decided to do it all at once. We have some wonderful ideas for the location of the actual ceremony and a few places for the reception afterward..." Aziraphale started to ramble a bit, before remembering himself and taking a breath. "But it's only if you want to as well."

"If I want to?" Crowley scoffed. "If I _want_ to? Angel, I've been in love with you since the day I found out you gave away your flaming sword to some stupid mortals." The anger melted into a gentle expression and he watched as understanding dawned on Aziraphale and soon enough they were beaming softly at one another. "You're so special, nothing like the other angels, and you are the only person I want to spend forever with." He squeezed Aziraphale's hand gently, and reached up with his other to rest it on Aziraphale's shoulder, then nodded toward the white box in the grass. "And if you want to make it official in terms of human standards, then I suppose we can get married. You always were fond of human traditio–" He was cut off by a firm pair of lips pressing to his.

Crowley froze just for a second before melting into the tender touch, sliding his hand to cup Aziraphale's cheek as Aziraphale loosely hugged his neck.

It only took a moment before Aziraphale's grip tightened and he tilted his head and kissed Crowley harder, almost hungrily. Crowley eagerly returned it, humming softly. Aziraphale was the one to pull away after a short while, leaving both their cheeks flushed and their lips puffy. Aziraphale giggled quietly to himself, then reached up to take Crowley's hand from his cheek, finally slipping the ring onto his finger. It was a perfect fit, and Crowley was sure Aziraphale didn't have it sized. Just one of the many perks of being an angel.

"That's more like it," Monica said with a grin. She jabbed a thumb over her shoulder. "How about I show you what Mr. Fell and I have planned so far, and you tell us what you think?"

Crowley distantly heard the lady, and nodded distractedly. He was so focused on Aziraphale's crystal blue eyes and how they seemed to sparkle. And now that he knew they only sparkled for him, it made it all the more special. He was Aziraphale's, it was official now. And Aziraphale was his. Despite all their sins—though one might argue it's _because_ of their sins—they were made to be together. So together they would be.

And neither of them would have it any other way.

~Fin~

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to say some final things, just to be clear...  
•Pride isn't a sin if you're proud of who you are; it's a sin if your pride holds someone (including yourself) back  
•Anger isn't a sin if it's expected and justified; it's a sin if you lash out and hurt someone intentionally  
•Sloth isn't a sin if you're taking time for self-care; it's a sin if you deliberately put something off in favor of being lazy  
•Lust isn't a sin if you have sex or enjoy porn; it's a sin if you force yourself non-consensually on another  
•Greed isn't a sin if you work hard to get what you want; it's a sin if you take things from other people for your own gain  
•Gluttony isn't a sin if you collect things; it's a sin if you overindulge to the point of preventing others from enjoying it  
•Envy isn't a sin if you're jealous of someone; it's a sin if you begin to treat them poorly for what they have
> 
> So technically the sins in this story are more like plot points for each chapter rather than legitimate 'sins' the husbands committed.  
~ ~ ~
> 
> I sincerely hope you all enjoyed this story! Make sure to leave kudos and/or comment if you did; they really make my day and show me that you'd like to read more stories from me!
> 
> ~ ~ ~  
And as always, each stunning piece of art was made by the incredibly-talented [FreedomAttack](https://freedomattack.tumblr.com/)! PLEASE make sure to go give her lots and lots of love!!


	8. Art Update! (by FreedomAttack)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 7 Sins art collection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a collection of the 7 art pieces I commissioned from FreedomAttack! Make sure to go check her out if you haven't already!  
Her [Tumblr](https://freedomattack.tumblr.com/)  
and her [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/freedomattack_thereal/)

**Author's Note:**

> Artwork (by FreedomAttack): [[link to their Insta]](https://www.instagram.com/freedomattack_thereal/)  
Podfic (by Im_Not_Occult): [[link to the podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24739894)  
Translation to Russian (by cosplay_of_nothingness): [[link to the translated fic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24729457/chapters/59779135)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Seven Deadly Sins, by CuddlyHawk](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24739894) by [Im_Not_Occult](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Im_Not_Occult/pseuds/Im_Not_Occult)


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